


In Only Seven Days

by wombatpop



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Alcohol, Arguments, Bets & Wagers, Breaking Up & Making Up, Brian May's 1974 Hepatitis Diagnosis, Cigarettes, Common Cold, Complete, Concert: Live At The Rainbow 1974 - Queen, Deception, Drunkenness, Eavesdropping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fame, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied Sexual Content, Magazines, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Party, Period-Typical Sexism, Phone Calls & Telephones, Picnics, Press and Tabloids, Queen II, Relationship Advice, Retail, Smoking, Song Lyrics, Swearing, Touring, United States, ish, top of the pops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-10-28 03:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 36,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombatpop/pseuds/wombatpop
Summary: "She told me not to call her for a week.”“Probably assumes you’ll lose interest, you terrible sleaze.” Brian inspects his beer, almost to the end of his glass.“Honestly. You make me sound so shallow.” The other three share an affirming look, and Roger rolls his eyes.“Fuck off. I’m not shallow, I’m... passionate.”“Alright, prove it. Wait a week and if you’re not on to someone else, give the sales girl a call.” Brian says.“I will. If only just to spite you pricks.”---When Roger meets a sales girl, Brian bets he has a caveman brain. Roger sets out to prove Brian wrong.





	1. “Can I help you with anything?”

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy this self indulgent, historically inaccurate, artistic license filled fic. talk to me on [tumblr](http://wombat-pop.tumblr.com). thanks to [hannah](http://girlafraidinacoma.tumblr.com) and adelle for beta-reading!
> 
> formerly Calling All Girls, major edits 25/2/19

_Thursday, 7 February 1974_

You’re the only employee in the record store, and it’s a slow day. Tucked behind a barber’s shop on the outskirts of London, you’re in possibly the worst place to attract foot traffic. Suits you; working at a mostly empty record shop is better than most retail. And you get to pick the music.

You’re sorting out records due to be put on display behind the register when you hear the bell ring announcing a customer’s entrance. You glimpse a blonde mop of hair begin to mill around, eventually settling in the rock section. With nothing else better to do, and having been recently scolded on your lack of customer service, you approach it. As you get closer the figure turns and a male face inspects you from behind his eyelashes, soft and expressive.

“Can I help you with anything?” You ask, his face quickly morphing into a devilish smile.

“I certainly hope so.”

“Were you looking for anything in particular?” He seems unresponsive to your unimpressed stare, responding with enthusiasm.

“Yeah. Uh, you have any Beatles?”

“We sure do.” You lead him down the alphabetised aisle, stopping at ‘B’ and gesturing to the distinctly labelled Beatles section with a flourish.

“What about Led Zeppelin?” You should probably be annoyed at his taunts, but his mischievous energy makes it difficult to stop a smile, the corners of your mouth twitching as you walk to the other end of the aisle.

“Conveniently located under ‘L’.”

“Would I be right in thinking that the Stones would be-” He starts, gesturing vaguely to another section of records.

“‘R’? Yes.” He nods, clearly satisfied with his charade, crossing his arms. You clasp your hands together, wondering when the appropriate moment in a customer interaction is the best to make your exit. Though his gaze is undoubtedly alluring, you’re running out of false politeness.

“What would you recommend?”

“I can never go past The Who.” You offer, the stranger humming in assent.

“Excellent taste.”

“Thank you.” You say, and there’s a moment of silence, the store music playing alone. You decide now would be a good moment to escape. “If there’s anything else I can help with, let me know.”

He seems somewhat surprised at your exit. While you’re not opposed to conversation with good-looking young men, conversations on the clock seem like such a chore the other party doesn’t factor. Though he was particularly good-looking.  
When he comes up to the counter he’s wearing a cheeky smirk again.

“Find everything okay?” You ask, and he grins at your comment, leaning on the register. He hadn’t brought any of the albums you pointed out to him to the register, he hadn’t brought anything at all.

“Not quite.”

“What are you missing?”

“I was looking for the new Queen album.”

“Oh, I was just looking at that.“ You fish a record out of the pile you’d just made. He seems far too amused as you place it on the register.

“Here it is. Shiny and new.” You only get a proper look at the artwork when you go to check the price, suddenly struck by the familiarity of one of the faces.

Your eyes flick between the album and the man in front of you. You can see him spot the spark of recognition in your eyes. It must be him; it’s too strong of a resemblance. And his attitude gives it away. Seeing his smug expression, you decide that to feign ignorance is the best option.

“That’s five pounds.” You announce, but his smugness doesn’t fade.

“I tell you what. I’ll give you five pounds for the record and I’ll take your number as well.”

You attempt to stare him down, but the twinkle in his eye is far too endearing, even as you disapprove of his sleaze.

“Alright.” He grins, and you take the fiver out of his hand.

“But-“ You say as you shut the till drawer. “Call me in a week.”

“What?”

“If you’re still interested a week from now, then give me a ring.” You say, scribbling your number out on the back of his receipt.  
He looks as if he might protest, but as you hand him the receipt, he seems to concede.

“Fine. I’ll talk to you-“ He looks at his watch dramatically. “At 4:13pm next Thursday.”

“Great.” You say cheerfully, and he shakes his head, looking back at you as he leaves. Though you’re sure many girls have fallen prey to that look, it’s still far too effective on you. You let out a shuddering sigh, and check the clock. Almost time to clock out.


	2. “You’ll never believe what happened to me today.”

_Thursday, 7 February 1974_

The members of Queen sit around a pub table, drinks in hand. The walls are dark, music playing lowly in the background, mostly obscured by the voices of the patrons. The group were enjoying a well earned few days rest, having just got back from their first tour, and with another tour shortly in the works. Roger arrives at the table with typical flair.

“You’ll never believe what happened to me today.” He says, sitting himself down in between Freddie and John. Freddie’s smoking, nursing a glass of wine, jotting in a notebook, hands and lap full. John’s taking generous mouthfuls of a dark spirit, leant back in his chair.

“What? Did you break any laws? I don’t want to be implicated.” Brian says, sipping his beer. 

“No, not today. I went to a record shop to see if they had our album-”

“Did you buy your own album?” Brian interrupts.

“Yeah, of course.” 

“We’ve got fifty copies at the studio!” Brian scoffs, exchanging an incredulous look with John, who shrugs.

“It’s not the same.” Freddie says, glancing up from his notes, and Roger nods.

“Thank you! Anyway, there was this sales chick there, totally into me-“

“I’m sure.” John chuckles.

“She was! She gave me her number!”

“Is that the crazy part of this story?” Brian interjects, and Roger frowns.

“No! She told me not to call her for a week.”

“Probably assumes you’ll lose interest, you terrible sleaze.” Brian inspects his beer, almost to the end of his glass.

“She’s got you picked, that one. Easily distracted.” John comments.

“Honestly. You make me sound so shallow.” The other three share an affirming look, and Roger rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off. I’m not shallow, I’m... passionate.”

“Alright, prove it. Wait a week and if you’re not on to someone else, give the sales girl a call.” Brian says.

“I will. If only just to spite you pricks.”

Freddie raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”


	3. “Do you think he’ll call?”

_Thursday, 14 February 1974_

You and your roommate, Piper, sit on your couch, chatting away on the afternoon during which the blonde stranger, who was definitely the drummer from Queen, was meant to call. You’re attempting to re-hem a skirt, too well loved to be thrown away, some terrible music your roommate is partial to playing quietly.

“Do you think he’ll call?” Piper paints her nails a bright red, leaning over the coffee table while you talk.

“No.” You reply, a little more defeated than you intended.

“You don’t think so?”

“No, he’s probably on someone else by now. I was just a sales girl after all.”

“You’re harsh. You don’t even know him!” She gestures with the nail brush, narrowly avoiding painting your cardigan.

“I figured him out in one second.” There’s a pause, and you know Piper strongly disagrees.

“Well, maybe I’m an optimist but I think he’ll call.” She finally says, finishing her final nail, holding her hand up to blow on it.

“We’ll find out soon enough. What’s the time?” You ask, attempting to hide the fact that you’ve been checking the clock every minute since three.

“Just hit 4:15.”

“He’s already late.”

“At least give him five minutes grace.”

“Alright.”  
Just as you finish speaking, the phone rings. You and Piper share an excited look, and you pick up, almost stabbing yourself with your needle in your haste.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Roger.” You raise your eyebrows, confirming Piper’s suspicion, and she puts her hand over her mouth to keep herself silent.

“Roger?” You feign ignorance once more, Piper delighted, stifling a laugh.

“From the music shop? Last week?” He sounds a little less sure of himself now, and you almost feel bad.

“Oh, of course.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go out tomorrow night. I could pick you up around nine?”

“Sure. Why don’t you pick me up from the store?”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“See you.”

You place the phone down, hardly waiting until it clicks into place before you and your friend start squealing.

“He’s taking me out tomorrow!”

“Oh my god! What are you gonna wear?”

“I need something that says sexy and stylish.”

“That’s my specialty. Open your closet.”

-

_Friday, 15 February 1974_

She’s waiting outside of the closed record store bathed in red neon light when he pulls up, almost blocking the narrow street even in his small convertible. He checks his hair quickly in his rearview mirror as she walks over, waiting with the same look he left the store with the week before when she arrives at the passenger side door.

“Hi.” He says a little too sweetly and she smirks, treating his flirtation with caution.

“Hi.” She hardly shuts the door before he screeches into motion.  
“You’re a keen driver.” She comments, feeling herself being pushed back into her seat.

“You frightened?” He says, but any irritation at his arrogance is offset by his eagerness in impressing her.

“No. I like it.” He glances over to her, but she’s not looking at him, hair whipping out behind her in the breeze.

They retreat to a corner booth in a trendy bar of Roger’s choosing. He buys the first round of drinks, but after a half hour or so he’s not flirting every sentence like usual. She notices the shift, like a mask slipping off, and suddenly the things he’s saying are real. His pick-up lines are gradually replaced by human conversation. As he opens up, his arrogance becomes a more endearing confidence, interrupted by the human insecurity of a real person, not an idol. Maybe it’s the fact that they have to shout to hear each other that offers them a sense of safety, leaning close and speaking next to each other’s ears; two beings united by alcohol and bad lighting.

He’s in the middle of telling her about his father when he realises what he’s saying, almost stopping mid-sentence. But looking into her eyes, he finds his terror and embarrassment accompanied by a sense of comfort, of warmth. He finishes his sentence, stammering along the way, and she doesn’t turn away. She holds his gaze the entire night, never faltering. He supposes he should be trying harder to woo her, like he usually does. Somehow it seems ridiculous to use his tried and trusted lines on her now.

He reveals that Queen is in the midst of their latest album, released the day before he came to the record store.

“So you sacrificed your night just to take me out?” She asks, somewhat in disbelief.

“I had to.” He says, with more sincerity than she expected.

It’s late when you finally head out to his car. He drives you home, eyeing you in his rear view mirror, more admiring than lecherous. When you arrive at your building, you’re hesitant to leave.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say, and his smile seems genuine. He tries to shuffle closer to you, restricted by his seat, leaning over the front seat divide.

“I did too. Would you like me to escort you inside?” You give him an admonishing look.

“I made you wait a week to take me out, do you really think I’m going to sleep with you tonight?”

“Worth a shot.” Roger shrugs, but he’s still smiling. 

“Goodnight.” You say, stepping out of the car. The walk up to your building seems lonely without Roger beside you.

“I’ll ring you!” He calls out after you. “Tomorrow!”

“Okay!” He waits until your door clicks behind you before he leaves, his expectation of another fleeting and frivolous encounter long gone. He shakes his head as he drives away, grinning hard despite his best efforts, so excited for tomorrow to come that he’s sure he runs a red light.


	4. "Can I see you again?"

_Saturday, 16 February 1974_

It’s the next afternoon, your day off, and you’ve lied in most of the day, reading and reflecting. You’re making yourself a late lunch of a peanut butter sandwich when your roommate comes in from work, throwing the door open unceremoniously.

“You’re up! I thought you’d still be dead from your late night last night.” She comments as she dumps her handbag on the sofa, joining you in the kitchen. “How’d it go?”

“Good.” You say, wondering where to begin explaining the evening.

“Good? Or, like, _good_?” She says, settling in to gossip, leaning against the counter.

“No, it was good. He’s really sweet. I think he actually likes me.”

“I should hope so!” You finish making your sandwich and she takes over, making her own.

“You know what I mean.” You’ve taken her place leaning against the counter, reviewing the night before in your head. He was what you expected, for a time, but then he wasn’t. He was more. And hopefully he felt that way as well.

“Did he say anything about date number two?” Piper asks, interrupting your reflection. 

“He said he was gonna call today.” You say through a mouthful of bread.

“Really? He seems keen.” Piper sounds so optimistic.

“Yeah.” You sound uncertain.

“What’s the matter?” Piper finishes making her sandwich, turning to face your uneasiness.

“I hope he’s keen and not just horny.” You admit, a little embarrassed to be in doubt.

“Well, hold out for a while, and see what happens. He’ll drop you if he only wants to get in your trousers.” Piper replies, forever practical, and you nod, dismissing your apprehension with a wave of your head. With the things he said last night, the way he acted, your doubt is surely unreliable.

“You’re right.”  
At that moment, the phone rings. You and Piper exchange excited expressions and you leave her in the kitchen, discarding your sandwich and rushing to the living room to answer.

“Hello?” You say, as deliberate and normal as you can conjure. How do normal people talk?

“Hi.” It’s him.

“Oh, hi. I was wondering when you’d call.” You say, enjoying how cool and collected you seem as your heart inhabits your throat, leaping at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, I’ve been far busier than I prefer to be.” Though he’s speaking as deliberately as you, soft and inviting, he’s not delivering lines like he was in the record store, designed to get a girl into bed as soon as possible. When he asks, “What have you been up to?”, his interest seems genuine, though you regret you don’t have something more charming to answer him with.

“It’s my day off, so I’m doing absolutely nothing.” He chuckles in response.

“I’d love to join you. Can I see you again?” You smile at his earnestness, agreeing to see him again without hesitation.

“When?”

“As soon as you can.” His unabashedness only makes him more endearing, his urgency reassuring the part of you that still warns of his volatility.

“Well, I’m working tomorrow, but I’m free tomorrow night.”

“I’ll see you then.”

-

Freddie’s perusing a fashion magazine, sat a few feet away from where Roger places the phone down, the blonde smiling like an idiot. Freddie has draped himself casually over Roger's bed, as comfortable as if it were his own apartment, an attitude left over from when he and Roger did live together, still leaving food or clothes around out of habit.

“I do hope you haven’t booked yourself in for tomorrow night just now.” He says, and Roger cringes at his tone, attempting desperately to identify the misstep he’s committed.

“I have. Why?” He says, turning to face Freddie’s unimpressed stare.

Freddie lowers his magazine. “You said you’d come shopping with me, it’s Mary’s birthday next week.” Though his tone is disappointed as opposed to rageful, Roger knows Freddie hates to be let down.

“Oh, shit. I can’t- I’ve just told this girl… I’ve got a date.” Roger stammers, and Freddie’s disappointment turns to confusion.

“Tell her you can’t make it.” He says, but Freddie’s simple solution only irritates.

“I’m not-”

“Is this that girl you and Brian have a bet about? Just pay him.” 

“No!” Roger exclaims, a little too loud and angry, backtracking with an unconvincing attempt at humour.  
“I’m not surrendering to bullying.” He says, but Freddie refuses to be dismissed.

“He’s right you know.” He says, putting his magazine back up and crossing his legs. “You can’t hang on to a girl more than a week.”

Freddie’s tone is matter-of-fact, but it seems to sting as if he’d shouted at Roger from across the room, spat venom directly on his skin. Roger can feel his blood boiling, anger bubbling from his belly into his mouth, blurting words before he can stop them.

“Maybe that’s my choice!” He’s yelling, Freddie looking up from his magazine in surprise. Roger doesn’t wait for a response, turning and walking out of the flat in anger.  
He’s a block away before his breathing is back to normal, cheeks slowly cooling. He’s a little embarrassed now that he’s calmed, yelling at Freddie for a comment which was reasonably accurate, and definitely not the worst thing he’d ever said to Roger. He’d been needled for being fast with girls before. More often than not he relished in the comments, happy to have his way with girls acknowledged. Somehow the same comments involving her seem repulsive, like Roger’s afraid any mention of his past habits will jinx him into a life of transient relationships. Not that he’d ever worried about that much before.

He slowly circles back to his building, hesitating before he re-enters his apartment. Fred’s still there, moved on to a new magazine. He looks up at Roger expectantly when he enters.

Roger sighs, offering a quiet, “sorry, Fred.”

“As you should be.” Freddie says, eyeing Roger cautiously as he sits heavily on the couch next to him.  
“I hope you don’t talk to her like that.” He says, and Roger gives him pointed look, Freddie returning in kind. Roger sighs again, rubbing his face with his hands. The next time Freddie speaks he’s changed the subject.


	5. “Not what you’re accustomed to.”

_Sunday, 17 February 1974_

He rings the buzzer to your apartment at eight o’clock sharp, an hour since you’d rushed home from work, heart pumping in your ears. You’d bought a new lipstick specifically, a decision you’re starting to regret as you check your reflection, the nude hardly making a difference to your appearance.

“He’s coming up!” You call, and Piper appears next to you.

“Okay, don’t panic. Relax. Have fun. I’ll be home at midnight. You look great.” She fluffs your hair haphazardly around the ends, giving you an encouraging smile.  
She opens the door to a startled Roger, poised to knock.

“Oh! Don’t mind me, I’m just leaving.” She says, brushing past him briskly. “Bye!”  
He walks in, giving you a questioning look as he shuts the door.

“That’s just my roommate.” You say, cursing the anxious wobble underlying your voice. Somehow you’re more nervous for tonight than you were for the first date, a little more pressure when you’re hoping for something more than you initially expected.

“Frightened the crap out of me.” He says with a nervous chuckle, entering your living space with some hesitation.

“Want a drink?” You ask, and he nods enthusiastically.

“Love one. Got any vodka?”  
A small drink station is tucked next to the couch, only large enough to hold three or four bottles at a time. You lean over it, and he sits on the couch adjacent.

“Plenty. Mixer?”

“Tonic’s fine.” He looks around as she pours. It’s a cosy flat, clearly well-loved and lived in. There are a couple of photos hung up of her and her roommate in various settings, and an ugly cat figurine on the coffee table. He’s staring at it when she turns, drinks in hand.

“That’s Alfred.”

“Hmm?”

“The cat. His name’s Alfred. We’re not allowed to have real pets in this apartment.” She says, handing him his glass and sitting next to him.

“He’s not the prettiest cat I’ve ever seen.” He seems more at ease with a glass in his hand, resting his arm along the back of the couch.

“No, he’s hideous. But we love him.”

He nods. You expected it to be awkward, but you feel perfectly natural.

“Not what you’re accustomed to, I’m sure.” You say, gesturing widely, and it takes a moment of confusion before he understands your meaning.

“Oh, really, this is entirely suitable.” He says. Her apartment is better than his. And better decorated.

“For a big time rock star like you?”

“Well, I’m not quite there yet.” He’s grinning, a sparkle in his eyes from the mere mention of his imminent success. “We’ve got another tour coming.”

“When’s that?”

“Another three weeks, then it’s a month around the UK. Then, America.”

“That’s so exciting.”

“It is!” He says, adjusting himself where he sits, buzzing with excitement.

“Do you like it?”

“Touring? Yeah. I just love performing. With the crowd- even when it’s a really small venue it’s still great, all in the music. It’s magic.” He seems to light up from the inside, captivating in his animation.

“Sounds like it.”

“Have you ever been to a gig?”

“Only at uni. I’d love to see you live.”

“It’s quite the experience. So I’ve heard.” He’s been inching closer to you throughout the evening, seeming to move every time you would look away. He’s taken your hand in his, tracing small circles on the back of your hand lightly, eyes not leaving yours. As much as you are pulled toward him the real world is always playing at the back of your mind.

“What time is it?”

He looks at his watch. “Nearly midnight.”

“Shit.” You whisper.

“What?”

“My roommate will be home soon.”

“You kicking me out?” He’s just as disappointed as you.

“Afraid so.”

“Fuck.” He lets his head fall onto the back of the couch, lying there like he’s incapacitated while you stand until you motion toward the door.  
He follows you to the doorway, pulling you gently toward him. He attempts to close the space between you, but you evade him easily, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Is that all?” He asks, his cheek coming off as honest and earnest more than sleazy.

“That’s all you get tonight.” You say, and when he returns your smile your insecurities seem small.  
“Call me.” You add.

“Every day.” He says, not letting go of your hand until the last moment. You can hear him bound down the stairs, letting out an joyful whoop halfway down that you’re sure he didn’t intend for you to hear.


	6. "Who's Alfred?"

_Monday, 18 February 1974_

Freddie, John and Roger sit quietly, waiting outside Brian’s apartment for him to join them in Roger’s car. Roger’s tapping the steering wheel to a beat of his own creation, Freddie elbowing him to start the car when Brian emerges.

“Can I get the front seat next time, or is that too much to ask?” Brian laments, squeezing himself in the backseat with John, legs awkwardly stretched along the seats.

Freddie, in the passenger side, doesn’t look back. “I’ll consider it.”

“What’s this meeting actually for?” Brian asks, looking at each of his companions without reward.

“No idea. They just said to come in.”

“Alright.” There’s a moment of quiet before Brian speaks again, his playful tone unappreciated by Roger. “Freddie tells me you stood him up for the sales girl.” John gives Brian a surprised look, who returns his disbelief. 

“I didn’t stand him up, I just overbooked myself.” Roger says dully, attempting to make the subject less interesting through a deliberately flat delivery. Freddie scoffs. 

“So you managed the cooling off period?”

“I did. How much do you owe me?” Roger replies, looking at Brian in his rearview mirror expectantly. Despite his desire to change the topic of discussion, he can’t escape his competitive streak.

“No, no, one date doesn’t count.” Brian sounds uncertain in his insistence, grasping at straws to try and win the bet he initiated.

“Two dates.” Roger blurts, and Brian grumbles. 

“The bet was for waiting the week to call.” John says, Brian finally nodding.

“Alright, fair enough. I owe you a drink, Rog. But come on, she must be something for you to blow Freddie off for her. Two dates? What’s she like?” He asks, and the three wait for Roger’s response, met by a shrug. 

“You’re so descriptive usually. You know nothing will shock us, darling.” Freddie says, seemingly excited to hear of Roger’s scandalous exploits.

“Nothing like that!” Roger says, chuckling with Freddie. He searches for something to satisfy their curiosity, settling on a curt, “she’s lovely”, adding, “gorgeous; a good chat.”

“A good chat? You’ve gone soft, Roger.” Freddie’s amused, and Roger kicks himself for his admission, hating the vulnerability he feels as Freddie chuckles. 

“Oh sod off.” He says, more aggressively than Freddie expected, losing any appearance of humour. 

“You gonna see her again?” Brian asks, not quite realising Roger’s irritation.

“I really don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He snaps. The others are silenced by his hostility, sitting in tense silence for the rest of the trip.

-

They’re only slightly late for their meeting with management. When told of their last minute opportunity for Top of the Pops, Freddie’s excited to be broadcast to a large audience.

“The more eyes the better.” Freddie says, but Roger’s not convinced, and Brian’s on the fence after he learns they won’t be playing live. John seems content with the whole situation. Frustrated by Roger’s disdain for “pop bullshit” and his apparent refusal to understand Freddie’s vision, Freddie retreats to the car.

“You coming?” Brian asks, moving to follow Freddie out.

“I need the bathroom.” John says.

“Me too.” Roger says hastily, brushing past Brian.  
When Brian looks back on his way out, Roger’s glancing back at him, trailing behind John a fair way.

 

Freddie is smoking impatiently, leaning against the car when Brian joins him, John appearing shortly afterwards.

“Where’s Roger?”

“He said he had to make a call.”

“He’s got the bloody keys!” Freddie exclaims, abruptly extinguishing his cigarette on the sidewalk and walking back inside.  
“Come on, I’m not waiting around for him.”

Freddie finds Roger by the payphones in the lobby, talking lowly into the phone, John and Brian following. John seems indifferent but Brian’s suspicious, just as enthusiastic as Freddie in eavesdropping, though he expects they have different motivations. The three gather behind the payphone’s partition to listen, Brian and Freddie with their ears against the screen, John standing behind them.

“What about we go on a drive, just you and me? We could bring a picnic, stop somewhere.” Roger’s facing away from the three, playing with the ends of his own hair while he speaks.  
“When are you working? Thursday? I can do that.” He chuckles.  
“I can’t wait to see you… Just talking, it’s not the same. I don’t get my goodnight kisses.”  
“Tell Alfred I miss him terribly...”  
Roger places the phone to his opposite ear, turning to see three pairs of legs clearly visible underneath the screen.  
“I have to go. Bye.” He says, hanging up before the person on the other end would have been able to respond. He walks around the partition to see John, Brian and Freddie pressed against the wall. John and Freddie look alarmed, clearly expecting a painful reproach, while Brian just looks confused.

“What are you doing?” He shouts, earning a reprimand from Trident’s receptionist. He makes for the door, storming into the street. He’s fuming, hands in fists.

“Roger! Don’t be dramatic.” Freddie calls, John giving the receptionist an apologetic look as they rush after Roger.

“Why’d you guys have to fucking listen?” Roger yells, heading straight to the driver’s door.

“Hardly phone sex, was it?” Freddie says, but his attempts at humour, far from diffusing the situation, make Roger more angry. Freddie almost thinks Roger’s going to drive away without them before he stops, standing in the middle of the street next to the driver’s door.

“That’s not the point, Fred!” He can feel his face getting red, like an irate child.

“Look, I’m sorry Roger. We shouldn’t have listened in.” “Yeah, no shit.” “But you were being a little odd.” All eyes are on Brian, Roger still in the middle of the road, cars moving around him honking without acknowledgement.

“What?”

“Shifty.” Brian clarifies, and Roger’s expression shifts slightly from outrage to a guarded indignance.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.”

“Who were you talking to?” Brian asks, and he almost laughs when Roger answers.

“None of your business.”

“I think I can guess.” Brian says. “Picnic’s pretty romantic for a third date, isn’t it? Especially for you.”

“No! I … shut up!” Roger gets into the car, slamming his door and the others follow.

“We just want to know because we care about you, Rog.” Freddie says, and John tries to hide his laugh as a cough.

“Bullshit.”

“Is she-” “Forgo the interrogation.” Roger’s still seething, channelling his temper into driving especially recklessly.

“Alright, alright. One last question and we’ll let you be. Who’s Alfred?” There’s a beat before Roger sighs, speaking through gritted teeth, a grinning Freddie overjoyed at his reply.

“He’s a cat.”

“A cat?!”

“A porcelain cat.”

“I like her already.”


	7. ‘#45 Seven Seas of Rhye - Queen’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you can see i've edited the first six chapters cos i was not happy with them, so i'd recommend re-reading (25/2)
> 
> as always im not going for accuracy here, but i have added dates for clarity
> 
> in the meantime my lovely friend and beta reader hannah has published an incredible brian may/ofc story, [check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883152)

_Monday, 18 February 1974_

Possibly the worst shift a person can have the misfortune of working is opening on a Monday morning. Having company does lessen your misery somewhat, though you wouldn’t call this particular co-worker and yourself friends. Luke and you seem to find something to argue about every time you speak. You find him pig-headed and patronising. He finds you judgemental and stubborn. Some people just aren’t compatible.

He’s already unlocking the security screens as you arrive, rolling his eyes when he realises he’s stuck on shift with you. You greet him with a sarcastic smile, following him into the store in silence. Inside, he moves swiftly toward the break room, leaving you to open the till for service.

“Coffee?” He asks, offering only to avoid you complaining if he didn’t, already irritated by whatever your response will be.

“Only if you don’t screw it up this time.” Your bickering is just part of the routine, only now and again expressing genuine anger rather than a general irritation.

“Not my fault you drink it weaker than my Grandmother.” You’re flicking notes between your fingers like you have a hundred times before, losing count a couple of times before you settle on a figure. You could blame it on the Monday morning but it’s probably more than every second thought is occupied by Roger; his smile, his scent, his voice. He’d called the day after their second date, like he said he would, promising to make it a habit. Your previous beau’s had never showered you with such attention, and you’re aware that the flattery is going right to your head.

Luke arrives with your coffee, suitably contained in a mug emblazoned with the word ‘dirtbag’ in huge capital letters. He’s gone before you take the first sip, giving his back a sharp look as it disappears into the break room, you set the cup down in disgust.

“This is crap!” You call.

“Not my problem!” He calls back.

Sighing, you retrieve a rag and chalk from a shelf under the register, as well as an envelope containing the previous week’s top of the charts lists for albums and songs, delivered every Sunday evening. One of several Monday morning tasks was to update the list on a board at the front of the store, an attempt at encouraging sales concocted by the owner, though you’re not sure it’s effective. Luke’s handwriting certainly was not up to the job.

You make short work of the list, some songs moving up, some down, some disappearing. It’s afterwards, when you return to the register to nurse your revolting coffee, that you peruse the rest of the top fifty, stopping when you see a familiar name.

‘#45 Seven Seas of Rhye - Queen.’

When Luke emerges from the break room with a duster, you’re smiling, mouth twitching as you attempt to hide your excitement.

“You look insane doing that.” He says, stopping opposite you.

“Doing what?” You say defensively, dropping the grin and the list.

“Smiling at a piece of paper. What’s so interesting about-” He cranes his head to read upside down. “The top fifty list?”

“None of your business.” You say, and he gives up, not curious enough to pester you.

“Well, if you’re done with that…” He presents the duster to you and you roll your eyes, just about to tell him to rack off and do his own dusting when a customer enters, bell ringing shrill. Luke looks at you expectantly and you exhale, taking the duster from him as passive aggressively as you can muster.

-

You’ve been nervously checking the clock since you’d finished your shift, waiting for Roger to call so you can share in your excitement over what you assume is Queen’s first chart entry. You wait for him to bring it up, as you greet each other, as he asks about your day and you ask about his, pauses going on a little too long.

“What about we go on a drive, just you and me? We could bring a picnic, stop somewhere.” You try and focus through your distraction, confusion over his lack of mentioning such a milestone.

“That would be lovely.” Did he not know? If you know, he must know.

“When are you working?” Maybe he doesn’t think it’s a high enough position to be exciting.

“Uh, I’m free on Thursday?” Surely getting on the charts at all is big news.

“Thursday? I can do that.” Maybe he doesn’t want to tell you.

“You’re remarkably accommodating for a rockstar.” He chuckles, but doesn’t ruminate. He definitely doesn’t want to tell you.

“I can’t wait to see you.” Well, maybe he does.

“You’ve spoken to me every day since Thursday.” You act like he’s being ridiculous, but you’re delighted at his missing you. You’re probably making a big deal out of nothing.

“Just talking, it’s not the same. I don’t get my goodnight kisses.” You can feel yourself blush a little at his tone, making a relatively innocent sentence sound filthy.

“You’re incorrigible.” You know exactly the look he’s making.

“Tell Alfred I miss him terribly.” He says, still in the same tone.

“I’m sure he misses you too.” You’ve hardly finished your sentence when he speaks, abruptly ending the call with an “I have to go. Bye”, hung up before you can respond. You put the phone down slowly, replaying the conversation in your head. Something must have happened. You let out an exasperated sigh, all reassurance from the conversation dissipating into unease.


	8. “Only the most stylish Tupperware.”

_Thursday, 21 February 1974_

Your calls between Monday’s odd exchange and the picnic he suggested are brief; Roger always seeming to be rushing when he rings. Though you appreciate his effort in calling daily, without fail, your short conversations seem somewhat pointless. He still hasn’t mentioned Seven Seas of Rhye’s entry to the charts, or apologised for his ending a call so rudely. As much as you try to push it out of your mind, you can’t help but see his omission as significant. Perhaps you’re expecting too much.

You pack a basket, Roger clearly too busy to make a packed lunch, and he brings the car. He seems to draw the attention of those few in the street, quiet on a weekday mid-morning, leant against his shiny convertible with arms outstretched beside him. He looks a little more outrageous than the street may be used to, adorned in a low v-neck top under an embroidered jacket, sparkly pink shoes and oversized slouch hat. It doesn’t help that he presses the horn for what feels like forever to call you out.

The old cat lady with the rose garden across the road waves at him keenly, fluffy tabby in her arms. Other tenants, mostly other young women, gawk from windows, vanishing after he gives them a smile, curtains drawn hastily.

“You’re disrupting the ambience.” You say, the basket hung awkwardly on your arm, and he doesn’t break his pose.

“Oh good.” He says. You plant a kiss on his cheek just under his sunglasses, dumping the basket in his arms to interrupt his satisfied smile.

“What’ve you packed in here? It weighs a tonne!” He says, dropping the basket unceremoniously in the backseat.

“Only the most stylish Tupperware.” You answer, and he shakes his head. The old cat lady is still waving as you drive away, so you wave back, Roger joining you with a grin.

He heads toward the seaside, taking your hand almost immediately despite the obvious need for him to use two hands on the wheel. You’re singing along to the radio, Roger’s range wider and higher than yours, pointing out birds and horses and sheep you spot as you make your way out of the city. He enjoys your squeals of fear and delight as he takes corners a little too fast, narrowly avoiding a collision more than once, your hand squeezing his.

It’s almost an hour before you start thinking of stopping, eventually settling on a tiny seaside lookout. A wooden platform overlooks the beach, waves crashing beneath you. A bench occupies most of the platform, neatly positioned for a picnic.

You retrieve the sandwiches and tea you’d packed, and Roger happily tucks in, wolfing down his half of the sandwiches twice as quickly as you.

“Aren’t they feeding you?”

“I didn’t have breakfast.” He answers, muffled, mouth full. You shake your head. The wind is blowing vigorously off the sea, so his smile is obscured by his hair wrapping around his face. In his attempt to rid the hair from his mouth he manages to smear jam across his cheek, hair latching stubbornly to the sticky smudge. You’re laughing at him, but when he pokes himself in the eye with the remainder of his sandwich, having only just removed his sunglasses, you decide help is required.

“Stop moving!” He drops his hands, one eye still squinted, and you finally push his hair out of his face.

“I was gonna get it.” He says as you wipe away the jam with the end of your sleeve.

“Sure you were.” You hadn’t realised how close you were, but suddenly you’re aware of the lack of distance between your faces, your fingers against his jaw. He puts his hands up to yours, holding them against his face, his eyes flicking between your eyes and your lips.

“How do I prove myself to you?” He whispers, and you wonder if he meant to say it aloud.

“Prove what?” There’s a dense pause as you wait for him to respond, both unmoving, breathing in sync with each other. He’s starting to blush, discarding answers as quick as he comes up with them. He didn’t really know what the question meant when he asked it, what he’s asking her to affirm.

He settles on, “I don’t know,” eyes searching hers for whatever validation, love, childlike reassurance.

You assume his concern is that you won’t take him seriously, given his womanising tendencies, an issue you categorised as irrelevant after your first date. His desperation makes you suspect he may be referring to something else, some other significant failing he believes you need to accept. Whatever it is, you’re firm in your decision. “I think you already have.”

He seems to release a breath, a tension within him lifted, and they finally move, lips coming together gingerly. Your hands drop to his shoulders. He seems remarkably gentle and restrained, his lips soft against yours, sweet and sticky. His fingertips seem to dance over your skin, like he’s afraid to touch you, and it’s a relief when his hands finally settle, cupping your face as delicate as if it were glass.

When you break apart, it takes a second for you to realise your eyes are still closed. Roger’s beaming when you look up and you can’t help but reciprocate, both just sitting there grinning at each other until you stand, walking to the edge of the platform and leaning on the barrier. Attempting to stem your elation you’re biting your tongue inside your mouth, pushing until your survival instincts prevent you from pressing any harder. Behind you, Roger balls in hands into fists and relaxes them again, both presenting a calm face when he joins you at the barrier. After a moment of admiring the scenery, Roger speaks.

“By the way, sorry about Monday. I realise I never said why I hung up on you.” He’s got his forearms against the barrier, leaning forward and looking up at you.

“I was wondering about that.” You say, and he nods, seeming to accept his mistake in not acknowledging it sooner.

“Yeah, the guys were just, uh, playing a prank.” He sounds resentful, which only makes you more intrigued.

“How so?” He doesn’t seem to appreciate your obvious glee, standing up straighter to deliver his explanation.

“They were eavesdropping on our phone conversation. Hiding behind the phone booth with their ears pressed to the wall.” He says, miming their squashed positions, and her eyes widen.

“Oh dear.” He’s a little more satisfied when she is embarrassed rather than delighted at the thought of him being pranked.

“So, you see, I had to hang up.” He says, finishing his apology with a flourish of his hand, returning to his former position again the barrier.

“I see.” You say, amused. “So, when do I get to meet them?”

His body language shifts completely at your inquiry, stiffen. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, crossing his arms. “Who?”

“The other members of the band they call Queen, Roger?” She seems to still be amused, but Roger’s panicking, searching for words to fill the quiet while he comes up with an excuse. He couldn’t explain his reasoning, but everything in his being is telling him that introducing her to his friends would be the end of him.

“Ah, of course.” He says, turning so he’s got his back to the barrier, looking down at his arms still crossed over his chest. With his hat and hair, she can hardly see his face. “You know... we’re pretty busy. I’ll have to find out what we’re up to.”

There’s a beat before she answers, a confused “Alright,” his excuse ineffective. “I thought you guys were party every weekend type of people.”

He can’t deny that. “We are.” What’s another excuse he’s used before? “Would you want to come? I mean, they’re not as fun as they sound.”

She lets out a laugh, and he feels like joining her, his excuses particularly pathetic in contradiction to his usual eloquent charm. “I’m sure they are.” She says, and he can tell he’s failed at putting her off, only succeeding at leaving her annoyed, and them both confused.

“Fine.” His voice is higher than usual, strained. “If you want to come…” He shrugs defensively, seeming to dismiss the subject and you choose not to answer, looking back at the sea, foamy and violent. There’s a tense quiet, the kind you hate more than anything, you and Roger taking turns to sigh and frown.

You’re still irritated when Roger comes up behind you, pulling his hat on top of your head.

“Looks better on you.” He says pleasantly, and you play along with his change in mood, frown dissolving into a deliberate smile.

“I don’t have the glamour for it.” He takes your hands in his once more, pressing himself nearer to you until he’s a close as he was just moments before.

“Course you do.”


	9. “There’s a lot to unpack here.”

_Thursday, 21 February 1974_

Just a few hours after the most surreal picnic you’d ever participated in, you’re wrestling with a mass of fabric so unruly you’re sure it has a mind of its own. You’ve been attempting to finish hemming this skirt for a fortnight, forty five minutes just today, and you’ve finally given up. Your tailoring skills have utterly failed you, and you’re sure you must have permanent damage in your fingers from the amount of times you’ve stabbed yourself with a pin or needle. You throw the skirt and the various things stuck in it to the floor with a grunt, laying your head back onto the couch, arms flopped by your sides.

“I’m giving up.” You announce. Piper, whose personal accounting skills have long since extended to your finances as well, is balancing the weekly household budget and doesn’t look up at your outburst, offering a distracted, “good for you”.

“My life is going down the toilet, Piper.” This time she does look up, marking her place on the page with a finger. Your head’s been swirling all afternoon, feelings clashing inside your head, building to breaking point.

“What are you talking about?” You feel as though you might burst into tears, taking a moment before you start ranting.

“Well, I can’t hem a skirt, which I’m pretty sure is a vital human skill. I’m working at a store that I’m pretty sure is going to go out of business and I’ve got no savings. I’ve got a degree that is useless because I got all the way to the end before I realised I fucking hate journalism, and I’ve got no prospects, and my parents think I’m a failure, my mother keeps calling me asking when I’m going to get married and give her fifteen grandkids or at least get a respectable job for a respectable young lady. I’m going to die alone with nothing to my name and I’m only twenty-three.” You’re tripping over your words, Piper unable to get a word in until you’ve finished.

“Okay. There’s a lot to unpack here.” She says. Your response came as a loud sigh.  
“First of all, just chuck that skirt out, it’s not worth it.” You look up at her, insulted on behalf of your skirt, and she shakes her head. You drop your head back in concession.

“Secondly, if you don’t like your job just get another one! The world is full of opportunities for the precocious young woman.” You’re finding her points irritatingly difficult to argue with.

“Who gives a shit if you’re mother’s happy with you, no one’s parents don’t think they’re a failure.” You raise your head to disagree and she points a finger at you. “Don’t argue, I stand by that.” You roll your eyes, but she doesn’t look less concerned. “Is that all you’re upset about?”

“Yes.” She stares you down, and you sigh again, sitting up. “Well, do you think it’s reasonable to expect, if you’ve been… stepping out,” Piper raises her eyebrows at the phrase, but lets you continue, “for around a week but you feel like you’re really close, and you’re expecting to continue dating for a while, that you would meet a guy’s close friends that he has a band with relatively soon? Is that a weird thing to ask?”

“Based on your description I’d say that’s reasonable.” Piper seems overtly deliberate in her choice of words, knowing that you’re likely to base your perspective heavily on her diplomacy.

“Why wouldn’t he want me to meet them? All the explanations are that he secretly thinks I’m embarrassing or he doesn’t want anything serious with me. But that’s not the impression I’m getting otherwise.” You’re exasperated, gesturing wildly with your hands.

“What did he actually say?”

“He was all, ‘oh, we’re busy, you wouldn’t want to come to the parties anyway, I’ll have to talk to the guys’.”

“And what did you say?” Piper’s got her pen poised in her hand like she’s about to write notes on the whole debacle, her analytical skills transferred completely from the budget to the problem at hand.

“I said, ‘oh, okay’ and he got all clammed up like it was the most uncomfortable question ever. And then he changed the subject. And he never mentioned the chart entry either.” Piper nods, remarkably cool in the face of your catastrophising.

“Sounds like you freaked him out a bit.”

“I freaked him out?” Piper scrambles to rectify her mistake, your heart rate rising at the thought you might be at fault, reaction exacerbated by your already anxious state.

“Not by any fault of your own, it just seems like he was a little shocked, maybe, surprised. And didn’t handle it well.” You nod, attempting to stem your spiral.

“I still don’t see why it was such a big deal though, I mean, he’s met you.” Your protests are weak by this point, whining and feeble.

“Maybe it is a big deal for him. He sounds like he was scared stiff.” The suggestion that he might have reacted out of fear takes you off-guard. You hadn’t considered that he might be frightened… of you? While still skeptical you can understand Piper’s point. The body language, defensiveness- she’s right. He was scared.

“How do I fix that?” You say, almost to yourself, and Piper shrugs.

“You don’t.”


	10. "Your girlfriend watching too?"

_Thursday, 21 February 1974_

It’s only been a couple of days since they first got the call, and they’re going to be on national television. Freddie invites his band mates and their respective partners over to his and Mary’s flat for a watching party, being the only one with a television. As the time of the broadcast draws closer, he brings out some champagne, bought especially, more expensive than the usual stuff they tended to drink but still mid-tier. Leaving Mary to pour he waltzes to the television, flicking the on switch with a flourish. The box crackles and fizzes, then goes quiet again, the screen staying resolutely black.

“Deacon!” Freddie calls immediately, snapping his fingers, John having to abandon his freshly poured champagne to investigate. As John rummages around the back of the television, the others grow increasingly impatient.

“How long are you going to be, John?” Brian’s tapping his foot, hands sweaty in anxious anticipation of the broadcast. Chrissie, Brian’s girlfriend, is rubbing circles over his back in an attempt to calm him.

“I can only give an estimate-” John’s speaking slowly and calmly, distracted by his task, but Brian’s frantic.

“There’s only five minutes left!” He marches toward the front door, taking Chrissie by the hand, deserting his champagne glass so far untouched.

“Where are you going?” They’re already over the threshold by the time Freddie calls after them.

“I’m not missing it. Come on!” He motions for the others to follow him, the group quickly progressing from speed-walking to sprinting full pelt down the street. Brian leads them left then right, a couple of blocks further, stopping out of breath at the window of an electronics shop full of brand-new colour televisions. They arrive just as the title card of Top of the Pops appears on screen, the host announcing with sickly sweet cheerfulness their new act, Queen.

As the performance plays out, there’s total silence within the group. Displeased looks from passers-by at their taking over the sidewalk go unnoticed. While at first disappointed by the inelegant nature of their performance, squashed in between other sets in the weather studio, Freddie’s face is elated as he watches. They had no more than twenty minutes to prepare before the cameras started rolling, a couple of handheld mirrors between them, and the playback in the studio was so quiet they could hardly hear it. Some of the zooms are lacking, and their miming collapses under the weakest inspection. But they’re on there - in front of millions of eyes. Doing what they do best.  
John’s hoping their outfits will distract from their mistakes.

Freddie and Mary share an elated kiss, arms wrapped around each other. Roger feels a little out of place, glancing toward the three happy couples, his momentarily troubled expression out of place in the series of happy faces. Brian elbows him, his arm around Chrissie’s waist.

“Your girl watching too?”

Brian’s eyes stay fixed on the screens in front of him, the question dissipating as quickly as it was asked, forgotten by the group as they point out Roger’s terrible lip-syncing and Brian’s awkward over-acting, stark in contrast to Freddie’s perfect performance. Mary starts applauding as their performance concludes, the other girls joining her, Freddie, Brian and John bowing. When Mary taps Roger on the shoulder, wondering why he’s not joined in, he flinches.

“You alright?” Her smile is gentle and kind, but he seems to retreat from her, nodding inattentively.

“Yeah. I’m good.” Mary turns back to her boyfriend, frowning slightly, but again any curiosity is absorbed into the moment as they walk lazily back to Freddie’s flat.

The champagne doesn’t go to waste, half of Freddie’s collection of alcohol decimated in the following hours. Roger in particular seems keen to get drunk, slamming back a couple of shots as soon as they get back inside.

He’s on the couch, eyes glazed over, by the time nine o’clock hits. The girls and Freddie are singing along to their album, all loud and out of tune except for Freddie, while John dances silently in the corner. A tired Brian, down quite a few drinks himself, sits heavily next to Roger.

“Couldn’t she come tonight?” Brian asks, formulating sentences suddenly a monumental task. Roger takes a moment to process his inquiry before answering, his face suddenly falling.

“Uh.” Roger hiccups. “No.” He hopes to leave it at that, his head swimming, the room seeming to rock gently from side to side.

“What was she doing?” Brian’s words are slightly slurred.

“Actually, I didn’t tell her.” Roger manages to say. He rubs his eyes, but the room’s still swaying, so he closes them.

“Didn’t tell her what?” There’s a moment before Brian remembers what he asked in the first place, sitting abruptly. “You didn’t tell her that we went on Top of the Pods?” Brian holds onto the couch tightly for balance, his relative indifference replaced by shock. At the movement Roger opens his eyes, squinting. Neither of them picks up on his pronunciation error.  
“Why?” Brian cries, eyes wide.

Roger frowns. “I didn’t want to.” Chrissie pulls on Brian’s arm, urging him to their improvised dancefloor, and Roger closes his eyes again, debating how long he should wait until having another drink to avoid puking. He only lasts fifteen minutes.


	11. "What's the point of that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've crossed the 10k word mark.... can't believe my longest fic ever is a roger taylor fic. ur welcome? 
> 
> make sure to check out my gorgeous beta reader hannah's [brian fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883152)

_Friday, 22 February 1974_

Brian’s woken in the morning by a pounding in his head and the sounds of pots and pans being rummaged around in the kitchen. They’d all ended up staying at Freddie’s, every available surface occupied by a sleeping figure. Brian’s location of choice is the couch, his back against the cushions, Chrissie tucked inside his arms. John and Veronica are on the living room rug, John’s hair over his face, Veronica’s head on his chest. Brian stands carefully and tiptoes around them, his caution undermined by the eternal racket emanating from the kitchen.

When Brian finally stumbles into Freddie’s tiny kitchen, Roger’s slamming a frying pan onto the stove, pots and pans discarded around him.

“Why’s Fred gotta have forty bloody pans?” He mutters. Brian watches as Roger takes a packet of bacon slices and unceremoniously dumps the contents into the pan, waving the pan around half-heartedly before setting it down again. Satisfied that he isn’t in imminent danger of being hit with a frying pan, Brian ventures from the doorway, grabbing a glass and filling it with water.

“You on a diet?” He says, and Roger hardly reacts, mumbling, “it was the first thing I saw”. While Brian gulps down his glass of water, refilling it before he’s left the sink, Roger’s lighting a cigarette. It’s quiet apart from the sizzling mass of bacon and the occasional snore. Roger seems averse to talk, his cigarette shrinking quickly.

“Where’d you sleep?”

“Bathtub.” Roger says shortly, and Brian frowns slightly. In the back of his mind he’s worried, niggling like an itch in a spot he can’t reach; a feeling not uncommonly associated with Roger whether by Roger’s fault or Brian’s own.

“You ‘right? You seemed quiet last night.” Roger nods, but doesn’t look him in the eye. Brian tries to remember if Roger said a single word the previous night, but whether it’s the whiskey or his inattention he can’t bring anything to mind. Roger goes back to stirring his bacon, smoke between his lips. Brian’s almost given up when he finally remembers why the few words Roger said last night were so troubling.

“Did you say that you didn’t invite your girlfriend last night?” Roger stalls, tired brain struggling for an answer. While he knows he should be coming up with an excuse of some description, his brain is stuck on ‘girlfriend’, the word at once gratifying and utterly horrific. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and extinguishes it, Brian waiting expectantly.

“That’s what I said, yes.” Brian is excruciatingly quiet and Roger waits for a row to begin.

“What’s the point of that?” Brian’s disappointment is clear and Roger tries to play off the situation like it’s insignificant, a technique that had worked on many a concerned party though rarely his band mates.

“I just didn’t want to bring her. Lord knows you could understand that.” He says, referring to the relentless needling Brian endured when he started dating Chrissie. He’s an easy target compared to Roger and Freddie, prone to violent rows, and John, prone to identifying his opponent’s weaknesses a little too well. Roger turns his back to Brian, making a mess of the cutlery draw in his effort to find a fork.

“Don’t change the subject.” Brian’s well aware of Roger’s ability to gloss over problems with the skill of a salesman, and it never quite works on him. “You didn’t want her to meet us?”

Roger sighs, shutting the drawer harshly. “I just didn’t think it was the right time.” He reaches up and grabs a plate, shovelling the bacon from the pan onto the plate messily.

“That’s bullshit.” Brian’s voice is soft and calm, and Roger stills. When he turns around Brian looks at him so sympathetically he wishes he could be more angry. He’d rather a shouting match.

“I just wanted to... keep her to myself.” He says, still not meeting Brian’s eyes.

“We’re your mates, Rog, we’re not gonna steal her away.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Brian’s imploring look encourages Roger to keep speaking through his discomfort.

“I mean, what if you guys hate each other.”

Brian lets out a laugh. “Never stopped you before. Is that really what you’re worried about?”

Roger shrugs. “I don’t know, I just felt like it would be best to wait, that’s all.” Brian nods, but he still looks worried, fingers fidgeting around his water glass.

“This is a big milestone to leave her out of. Don’t you think?” He says, not reproachfully, but rather kind and gentle. Roger seems to exhale, shoulders still tense. When his eyes meet Brian’s they’re guilty and withdrawn, and Brian tries to give a reassuring look.

A creak emanates from the bedroom and Mary emerges, tying a floral robe around her waist.  
“Morning.” She croaks, making her way to the bathroom, and Brian smiles.

“Morning.” His reply is cheery and deliberate. He’s looking at Roger when he says it as if to put the previous subject to rest.

Roger loads as much bacon as he can onto the fork and stuffs it into his mouth.


	12. “I didn’t really respond… very well.”

_Friday, 22 February 1974_

Brian convinces Roger to stay at Freddie’s longer than he thought he would, but he still has a few hours to sit and stew by himself at home before calling her. He hasn’t quite decided what to say when the clock hits the hour. He calls her anyway, the phone ringing before he remembers he hasn’t got a game plan. He asks to see her tonight, consciously ditching another night of celebration with his friends. She suggests they go out for dinner.

“I’ll put on something nice.” She says, and he smiles, but it’s clear they’re both a little preoccupied. He hangs up without saying anything of substance, imagining Brian’s disappointment.

-

Roger leans against his car impatiently like he had the previous morning, nervous energy building in the way he fidgets with his clothes, his glasses. He doesn’t look up at the gawking onlookers, leaving them to stare freely. His anxiety seems to wane when his date emerges, stockings and skirt leaving him breathless in a different way.

“Thanks for dressing up.” She says, and he only then realises that he’s still in yesterday’s clothes, patterned vest and jeans distinctly not ‘something nice’. He shrugs, a little embarrassed now, and she smiles.

“It’s fine. We won’t go anywhere fancy.”

He opens the car door for her, hoping to make up for his clear lack of effort. “I actually have a place in mind.”

“Oh, good.” When they arrive at the restaurant, a little Italian place, he links his arm with hers, his staged gentlemanliness encouraged by her amusement.

“This is nice.” He sounds relieved, his nerves rising again once they’re seated. He adjusts his cutlery needlessly, shifting them by millimeters as if their placement is crucial.

“Do you need them?”

“Need what?” She reaches over and gently takes off his sunglasses that he’d forgotten he was wearing.“It’s light!”

His attempts at humour seem insecure but she lets them slide, her conversation with Piper circling her mind. He lets her choose the wine. Once the waiter leaves they’re finally alone, their table at the very back of the room.

“I just wanted to say,” She starts before he can come up with a full sentence. “I didn’t mean to pressure you yesterday, I mean, I don’t want to make this some kind of huge thing.” She’s aware her words are imprecise, searching his eyes for understanding.

“Oh.” Make what a huge thing? “It’s fine, I didn’t really respond… very well.” He says, and she seems satisfied.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. But it doesn’t matter anyway.” She says and he returns her smile, still a little unsure of her point but happy to play along with her apparent forgiveness.

“When’s tour?” She’s all cheerful and he feels silly knowing he’s very obviously hungover and not his usual calculated self. Even in the candlelight she must be able to see the dark circles under his eyes. He takes a gulp of his wine.

“About a week.”

“Shit.”

His tone is flat, apathetic. He’s mentioned it before, but it still feels like it’s crept up on her. She tries not to let her apprehension show.“You don’t sound that excited.”

“I won’t be seeing you.” Like the flick of a switch, his practiced facade seems to come into effect. Her blush is more gratifying than usual, reassuring.

“You can still call.” Shadows wrap around her face elegantly in the dim light. He tries to take a deep breath, rid himself of the screaming match he’s been having with himself all day and focus on her, her knees against his, her eyes looking up at him.

“Will you come? To the London gigs at least?” When she smiles he feels dizzy. It might be the dehydration.

“Of course.”

There’s a lull. Roger steels himself and offers her the first thing he can think of to properly ingratiate himself with her after their first whiff of conflict.

“We’re actually having a bit of a get together next week, before we go away.” He starts, and she tries to disguise her excited relief as curiosity.

“Yeah?”

“So, if you want to come you’re welcome to.” His eyes are darting between hers and the table, but settle once she breaks into a wide grin.

“I’d love to.” Your plates arrive and, after careful consideration, you both conclude that the food is surprisingly tasty considering how cheap the restaurant is.

“You can’t go wrong with Italian food.” She states, but Roger shakes his head.

“You can definitely go wrong with Italian food. The potential for fucking up is enormous.” His eyes are wide, as if he’s reliving some kind of traumatic event, and she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh, you’d know, would you? You cook?” Somehow skill in the kitchen is not something you’d expect Roger to have mastered. At least, not outside of the realm of cheap university cooking-for-survival.

“I do! I cook!” He insists.

“What, sandwiches?” You scoff and Roger looks offended even though he’s grinning.

“I can do a mean curry.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Alright, I’ll have to cook for you now. You’ve left me no choice.” He shrugs, putting his hands against the table in finality. “Why don’t you come over on Sunday night and I’ll show you how a real chef works.”

Your tongue’s between your teeth as if to hold back all the possible comments you could make. “Can’t wait.”

The rest of the night passes easily, both of you slipping seamlessly into your roles opposite each other, like your first date all over again, like nothing had ever worried you. At the end of dinner, he drives you home, but he doesn’t attempt to follow you up. Meeting in the middle of the front seat for a goodnight kiss, your hands to yourselves, you wonder whether your answer would be the same if he asked again.


	13. “I’ve proven myself, haven’t I?”

_Sunday, 24 February 1974_

You squint against the setting sun, trying to decipher the directions Roger had given you to his flat. His description of ‘the grey building’ was entirely unhelpful, with the row of grey blocks on the end of his street varying only slightly in shape and colour.

Finally you come across what appears to be the right number. Inspecting the long list of residences you’re pretty sure number fifteen says ‘R Taylor’, the handwriting managing to be difficult to read even in block print. You buzz it, reading Roger’s directions again as you wait for an answer.

The voice that comes back is familiar and lets you in as soon as you speak, so you assume you’re in the right place. When you reach the third floor number fifteen’s door is open.

“Hello?” You call, and as soon as you enter the threshold you can see his entire apartment. It hits you now that you’d never been there, Roger always volunteering to come to your place or pick you up. His flat is a studio apartment, bed used for a couch, kitchenette tucked into the corner between an elaborate drum kit and what seems like all of the rest of his belongings in a large wardrobe. Roger turns to you, head over a pan, and grins.

“Hello! You made it!” He walks over and embraces you, kicking the door closed behind you.

“I did!” The kitchenette, just a stovetop, sink, mini fridge and a couple of cupboards, is emanating urgent bubbling and sizzling sounds, as well as an odd smell. Like curry, but not quite right. You try to approach the stove but Roger stops you, pulling you back and sitting you on his bed.

“No peeking! It’s a secret recipe.” He says, leaving you where you sit and jogging the three steps back to the stove.

“Oh dear.” Despite his excitement you can’t help but feel apprehensive. Roger rolls his eyes.

You take your enforced stillness as an opportunity to look around. His apartment is messy, various objects strewn haphazardly wherever they land, though most of his things seem to be piled inside or on top of the wardrobe. A couple of posters of actresses and from Queen performances are on his walls. As well as them there’s a few pieces of art; sketches, coloured illustrations and even a watercolour, of what you can’t quite see from across the room. Behind the drum kit the only window is wide open, letting the heat and steam from the cooking outside. Beside his single bed is a record player, a box of records stored underneath it.

“I really am surprised you can cook, you look like you’ve not eaten for decades.” You call, sifting through his collection.

“Don’t be rude!” He replies, laughing. He seems to be doing a lot with his dishes; your understanding was that curry is a bung everything in and simmer for a while kind of thing, but perhaps you’re wrong.

“No ABBA?” You can feel Roger’s glare on the back of your neck, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of turning.

“What did I say?” You grin, finally settling on a rock band you’ve never heard of, swaying to the beat as the guitar swells and rises.

It’s another few minutes before Roger turns, triumphant. He hands you a plate, both of you sitting on his bed in lieu of anything resembling a dining space.

“I present to you, a dish of my own creation, the Taylor Curry.” He gestures for you to eat, so you hesitantly bring a forkful into your mouth. You’re torn between swallowing it and spitting it out immediately, the taste utterly alien to any curries you’d had before. Impulsively, you swallow the mouthful without chewing, the sensation unpleasant as it makes its way to your stomach. His face falls as he sees your disapproval.

“Is it bad?” He takes a bite himself and grimaces. “I swear it was better when I made it in uni.”

You give him an admonishing look for letting you eat something concocted by uni student Roger. “What’s in this?”

“Normal curry stuff. Coconut milk, some spices, whiskey-”

“Whiskey?” You exclaim, and Roger looks tentative. That explains the unexpected taste; it’s like one big plate of whiskey with curry powder mixed in.

“That’s the secret ingredient…” You shake your head, and he tries to justify himself. “They use wine in cooking!”

You stammer, your shock morphing into amusement at just how ridiculous the situation is. “I can’t believe you just added a litre of whiskey to this and thought-”

“It adds flavour!”

“That’s what the spices are for!” You’re both laughing now.

“Is this spam?” You say, holding up a piece of mystery meat on the end of your fork.

“It’s chicken!” It’s a moment before either of you say anything, bursting into laughter every time you make eye contact.

“I appreciate the effort.” And you do, really. It’s sweet that he tried to cook for you, even if it was a failure.

“I did actually have a plan B in case it didn’t work.” He says, retreating to his fridge and pulling out a pizza box.

“I’d say you should have more faith in yourself but you were right to doubt yourself in this case.” He chuckles and nods, his embarrassment seeming to lift. As he puts the pizza box on the bed between you, you notice a bandage on his hand.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“Oh, no. We started rehearsal yesterday, so I’m a bit blistered.” You must look concerned. “Don’t worry, they’ll callous over after a few days.”

“Oh, great.” You say sarcastically. “How’s it all going?” You’re trying to be tactful to avoid making him uncomfortable like last time but he still seems a little short.

“Rehearsals are going great.”

“Good to hear.” She doesn’t press the subject, both eating their cold pizza quietly.

The record finishes and you stand to replace it. Queen II, the very album he bought from you the day you met, sits at the end of the pile. You put it on, placing the needle down where you guess Seven Seas of Rhye begins.

The end of Funny How Love Is plays, and you turn to Roger. “Come on, let’s dance.”

_Fear me you lords and lady preachers  
I descend upon your earth from the skies_

You pull him up off the bed to standing, his mouth still full of cold pizza.

 _I command your very souls you unbelievers_  
_Bring before me what is mine_  
_The seven seas of Rhye_

At first it’s just you moving, puppeteering his hands as you dance. But soon he joins, if hesitantly, his arms moving with yours.

_Can you hear me you peers and privy counsellors  
I stand before you naked to the eyes_

He grins as you begin to half-mouth, half-sing the words, still more watching you than actually dancing.

 _I will destroy any man who dares abuse my trust_  
_I swear that you'll be mine_  
_The seven seas of Rhye_

Encouraged by your enthusiasm, he finally seems to start moving with intent.

 _Sister I live and lie for you_  
_Mister do and I'll die_  
_You are mine I possess you_  
_I belong to you forever_

You can’t hit the high note, your voice waning as Freddie’s soars higher. Roger has no such trouble, belting out the note with his arms outstretched.

At the instrumental you both throw yourselves into dancing as if to challenge each other to a clumsy dance-off, flailing wildly. You’re almost yelling when the vocals come back in.

 _Storm the master marathon I'll fly through_  
_By flash and thunder fire I'll survive_  
_Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive_  
_Then I'll get you_

Your dancing becomes more theatrical, your performances increasingly competitive. You’re both gesturing widely, pointing and grasping toward nothing.

_Be gone with you, you shod and shady senators  
Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries_

You can see Roger’s dancing stagnate, catching his eye just as he takes a step toward you. Far from catching you off guard as he had hoped, you leap onto his bed just out of his reach, still saying the lyrics as you attempt to balance yourself.

 _I challenge the mighty titan and his troubadours_  
_And with a smile_  
_I'll take you to the seven seas of Rhye_

You finally stumble, Roger jumping onto the bed with you as soon as your back hits his duvet, an arm around your waist pulling you closer to him.

“Your neighbors are gonna hate you.” You say, the song fading out. Roger props himself up on his elbow, eyes lingering on your face as if fascinated, though you’re sure you can’t possibly be that engaging.

“They already do.” The record spins silently for a few seconds before stopping. Roger leans toward you, his leg pushing the open pizza box off the bed, pizza slices landing face down. At the thud of the box hitting the floor Roger groans, but doesn’t move to pick it up.

“You gonna get that?” You ask, and he shrugs, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “You’re incorrigible.” Your admonishment has no teeth, your heart racing from the intoxication of his closeness to you.

“Can I kiss you, or are blue balls the price of showing my devotion?” You laugh breathily.

“I told you, you’ve already proven yourself.” His kiss devolves into something more and you end up glad he knocked the pizza on the floor.

-

Roger’s sitting up on his pillows, back against the wall. You’re picking out a new record, setting another unfamiliar album on the player and placing the needle down. This album is a lot more acoustic than the last one you chose, more of a folk ballad.

Roger lights a cigarette, motioning for you to return to the bed. You lie next to him, head on his bare chest, his arm around you. There’s a moment of quiet when you shut your eyes, the smell of cigarette smoke filling the room, ridding it of the terrible curry smell somewhat.

“I won’t be sleeping with anyone else on tour, just so you know.” You turn your head to look up at him. He seems sincere, looking back at you, but it feels like he said it more for himself than for you.

“Let’s see if you’re saying that when ten screaming girls are trying to suck you off backstage.” You’re only partly joking.

“I’ve proven myself, haven’t I? I’m gonna be the king of blue balls.” You let out a chuckle, pushing the voices in your head that insist on doubting him below those that trust him implicitly.

“A title well deserved.” You say seriously, and he grins.

“That’s harsh.” He kisses you so convincingly that you can feel yourself swoon. You can’t bring yourself to curse your affection for him, can’t muster a single criticism for how you lie in his arms. It’s just you and him in his tiny apartment, the expectations of the outside world laughable from inside your perfect bubble.


	14. “I’m trying to be good.”

_ Monday, 25 February 1974 _

This time you arrive before Luke, neither of you are less irritated to be working Monday morning together again. Perhaps you’re in more of a bad mood than usual because you had to get up hours early to get back to your apartment from Roger’s, but the thought of working with Luke for another several hours makes you want to quit on the spot. You’re stuck balancing the till and updating the chart lists again, Luke seemingly more concerned with his morning coffee than with actually opening the store.

You tuck the top albums and singles under your arm, wiping last week’s list off aggressively. The chalk breaks when you try and write the first album. You take a deep breath, trying to rid yourself of the inevitable irritability that a lack of sleep brings. If anything you should be cheerful today, given the weekend you’d just had.

You feel like your gloom is finally starting to lift when you move on to the singles list, each breath clearing your mind a little more. You’re halfway through number seven when you realise what you’re writing.

‘#7 Seven Seas of Rhye - Queen’

Your first emotion is delight, utter excitement for their success. Roger didn’t talk about their entry to the charts last week, but they probably weren’t high enough for him to consider it a big deal. You can’t wait to celebrate with him now, especially since he’s promised to introduce you to the rest of the band. You’re smiling to yourself, staring absentmindedly at the unfinished chart, when Luke spots you.

“I thought smiling at pieces of paper was weird, but this is weirder.” He says, taking a gulp of his coffee.

“Oh fuck off.” Luke takes no notice of your comment, turning to the chart to watch you finish writing Queen’s entry.

“You like Queen?”

You try to sound as bored and discouraging as possible. “Yeah, I guess.”

Luke nods, drinking his coffee awkwardly. You can feel him wanting to continue the conversation so you do, figuring a couple more sentences will satisfy him enough to leave you alone. “Why, do you?”

“Yeah, love ‘em.” He says, and you can tell he’s a much bigger fan than he wants to admit.

“Their first couple of albums have been great, they seem to be going a bit mainstream now though.”

You frown slightly, finishing the last entry and turning to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Being on Top of the Pops and all that, they’re getting pretty popular. Which is fine, it’s good. I’m glad they’re succeeding. It’s just not the same, now that they’re not a small uni band anymore. You know?”

“Wait, did you say they were on Top of the Pops?” He seems taken-aback by your confusion.

“Yeah, Thursday. Last minute thing I think. They played Seven Seas of Rhye.” You’re chewing on your bottom lip, desperately attempting to come up with an explanation for Roger not mentioning it. More than not mentioning a minor hit, this was a major event. A major event that Roger left you out of, deliberately, despite all he may have said about his ‘devotion’.

Luke doesn’t question your distress, though he’s obviously confused, saying, “I left your coffee at the till” and leaving you be.

-

“What are you doing right now?” You opt to skip the small talk when Roger calls you that afternoon, his hesitation in answering affirming your suspicion of him.

“Uh, nothing. Why do you ask?” It hadn’t occurred to you to protest last night, but now you feel as though you should’ve pushed him away. You’re debating whether to yell or cry or be calm, and it stings to think about what will get his attention more effectively.

“I work in a record store, Roger.” You begin and he knows what’s coming, all hope of letting things go without consequence shattered. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on Top of the Pops?” Pulling him up on not telling you things still feels petty, even though you feel assured in your assessment of the situation.

There’s a second of silence on the other end of the line. “I had to hear it from my coworker.” You add, feeling the need to fill the quiet Roger’s leaving. Your words sound whining to your ears, high and sharp and you hate it, your own voice leaving a bad taste in your mouth.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and this time you don’t fill the quiet for him, both sitting in thick silence until he speaks again.

“I didn’t tell you and then I felt like I couldn’t. I just got caught up in everything-” He’s struggling for words. You can’t help but feel sympathetic to his despondency.

“I should’ve told you. I wanted to, I was just…” You feel like you know the rest of his sentence, but he can’t quite say it.

“I wish you’d told me, that’s all.” You lament, voice deliberately low and quiet.

“I know, it was not good behaviour.” He takes a breath. “But I’m trying. To be good.” He sounds so small, voice cracking on the other end of the phone. His anguish seems to outweigh your outrage, his transgressions seeming to bother you less and less the longer you listen to his voice.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Come over.” There’s very little resistance in your mind when you answer, your forgiveness implied in your longing for his company. His tone shifts to upbeat.

“Now?”

“Yeah.” Everything could be solved if you could just see him, look him in the eye while he apologises.

“Okay. I’ll come now.” He says, and you put the phone down slowly, retreating to the couch.

Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five until you see him.


	15. “I forgave him. What could I do?”

_ Monday, 25 February 1974 _

Piper comes home from a long day at work to the sound of muffled laughter behind her front door. She opens it cautiously, wary of walking in on something she isn’t meant to, calling out a loud, “Hello?”

“You can come in!” The answer comes quicker than she expected. Sticking her head around the door Piper is greeted by the sight of her roommate and Roger Taylor sitting on the couch. They don’t look too dishevelled, but she can tell from her roommate licking her blushing lips that they were likely in a much closer position before she arrived.

“You want me out of here?” Piper asks, hanging her jacket up on the back of the door.

“I should be going anyway.” Roger says, looking at his girlfriend far too smugly for Piper’s liking. Piper evacuates to the kitchen while they say their goodbyes, but she can still hear them muttering to each other.

“You sure you have to go?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you, alright?” There’s the unmistakable lull in conversation announcing a goodnight kiss, continuing so long she’s worried one of them is suffocating the other, and then the door finally closes.

Piper gives you a knowing look as you sit back on the couch and you can feel yourself blush.

“Sorry, I forgot you were coming home.” Piper laughs.

“I do live here, you know.” She joins you on the couch with a drink in hand, kicking her heels off. “Everything good with you two, then?” She adds, and you hesitate.

“Pretty much.” Piper groans at your reluctance. You take a sip of your drink, Roger’s empty glass sitting on the coffee table.

“Spit it out! What’s happened?” Piper asks and through her reproach you know there’s genuine concern.

“Well, they were on Top of the Pops last week.” You announce. Piper looks blankly at you for a moment.

“You mean… on the television?” You nod. Piper frowns.

“Did he not tell you about it?” Piper doesn’t remember it being mentioned. You shake your head.

“I heard it from Luke.” Piper looks shocked and you’re relieved at her agitation, glad to confirm your rationality.

“So what did you do?”

“I confronted him, he apologised.” Piper looks at you expectantly and you know your solution won’t gain her approval. You shrug. “I forgave him. What could I do?”

“Uh, not that!” You’re laughing but Piper looks serious. She stares you down as your amusement dissipates, and suddenly you’re on the defensive.

“It’s fine. He knows what he did was wrong.” Piper’s annoyance seems to be directed at you more than Roger now, her unimpressed stare sharper than she intends it to be.

“I see. He’s changed.” Her sarcasm stings. You’re still trying to deflect her point, unsuccessfully.

“He has! He was scared, right?” You’re treating this as just another boy drama, like all the others you’d shared over the years you’d known each other, but Piper’s eyes are still wide, her shock not lessening as you try to dismiss it.

“Now he’s not?” Bringing her own words back before her isn’t helpful. You stand, taking your glass and Roger’s to the kitchen.

“I can’t be too hard on him.”

“Or what, he’ll drop you?” Piper retorts, and you can feel yourself getting annoyed at her assumptions. You turn, still holding the dirty glasses, resenting the defensiveness you exude when you speak again.

“Maybe! I don’t know, when I talked to him about it, it just didn’t seem like such a big deal.” You’re exasperated, voice raised. Piper still looks skeptical, but you exile yourself to the sink for just long enough that she retreats to her room.

You’ve never washed dishes with such carelessness, hardly looking at what you’re doing, pushing the glasses around the water aimlessly. You sigh when Piper’s door finally clicks shut. The world is dark outside the kitchen window, interrupted by the indistinct colour of the city lights. You can feel the cool spring night permeating the glass.

She might be right. But what use is it to make a huge argument now, when you’re less than a week from tour, seeming to take such strides every day?


	16. "Roger's sales girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my characterisation of chrissie is not based on real life whatsoever dont @ me  
> my lovely beta reader hannah just released a new chapter of her brian fic, [check it out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883152)

_Thursday, 28 February 1974_

The party’s in full swing by the time you arrive, what Piper calls ‘fashionably late’. You can hear the music from the street as you try to locate Freddie’s apartment. His door is open, people stood outside in the hallway smoking and talking and kissing. You eye them cautiously, tugging at the hem of your shirt as you approach the doorway.

Inside there’s a remarkable amount of people for a small apartment; every square inch of floor space occupied by legs or bottles or records. Though it’s small it’s miles better than Roger’s apartment, perhaps even nicer than yours. You stand in the door for a moment, taking in the scene, unsure where to look in the throng for the only person you want to see. To the right seems to be a short hallway, to the left a living space, so you hazard the living space first. Weaving through dancers and drinkers, it’s only a few seconds before you hear a familiar voice.

Roger spots you across the room and leaps to your location, almost falling over in the process. It’s clear he’s already had a few drinks, a wide grin on his face as he calls out to you.

“You’re here!”

“Sorry I’m late.” The party doesn’t seem so intimidating when he’s taking your hand in his, beaming with delight at the mere sight of you.

“Come meet the guys.” He leads you deeper into the room, some of the other band members congregated against the wall.

One catches you out of the corner of his eye, turning to the man next to him and announcing over the music, “she’s here!” His cheeks are rosy. He holds a mostly empty glass in one hand, the other wrapped around the waist of a girl who looks at you  with a bored gaze, seeming less engaged with the party than anyone else there.

“That’s Deaky. John.” Roger says. John removes his arm from the girl next to him and extends his hand to shake yours. 

“I’m the bass player.” Roger hardly lets John finish his sentence, moving swiftly along to the next friend who observes the situation with a bemused expression. His gaze feels more active, more thoughtful than the others, but perhaps he’s just more sober.

“And that’s Brian.” Roger says. His hand hasn’t left yours. Brian grins, raising his glass toward you.

“Great to _finally_ meet you.” He says, giving Roger a pointed look. Roger huffs, but you just smile and laugh.

“Thanks for the invite.” You say, squeezing Roger’s hand, and his smile seems grateful. You decide more confidence rather than less is a good strategy, so you push any anxiety to the back of your mind, just in time for the whirlwind that is the lead singer.

“Is this your lovely sales girl, Roger?” A third man enters the circle with a flourish, placing a polished hand on Roger’s shoulder. Roger looks to you nervously, as if he’s afraid you’ll be offended.

“Sure is.” You reply, not letting yourself consider the oddness of that statement, and the man grins. You seem to be becoming quite adept at breezing past moments that you’d usually expect yourself to dwell on.

“This is Freddie-” Freddie reaches past Roger and pulls you into a kiss on the cheek.

“So lovely to meet you darling.” Freddie says, standing next to you. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you really?” You look to Roger for confirmation and he stifles his response to your delight, his curbed smile coming out as a reproachful smirk.

 “Now, I have to ask,” Freddie begins, his face growing serious. “Roger mentioned a cat.”

“Alfred?” Freddie shuts his eyes and brings one hand to his chest.

 “What a majestic name for a feline.” Roger rolls his eyes as you and Freddie begin chatting avidly about cats. John and the girl, you assume his girlfriend, are talking lowly to each other, eventually joining the mass of dancing couples at the next change of song. Roger, growing restless, grabs the closest unattended glass and takes a gulp, fingers tapping against the glass rhythmically.

 Brian nudges Roger with his foot, catching his attention. “She seems great.”

 Even with Roger besotted with her for weeks, Brian had no idea what to expect. She seems pleasant enough, content to indulge Freddie’s drunken demands, resilient enough not to let their jokes frighten her off. Roger seems to soften and shine under her gaze, loathe to let her hand leave his, which is enough to encourage Brian to like her.

 “Don’t start.” Roger warns, inspecting his new beverage.

 “No, really. Out of any girl at least you get hung up on one Freddie likes.” Brian says, still with that amused and calm expression he’s had the whole time.

 Roger’s brain is buzzing from alcohol and adrenaline, torn between bickering with Brian and agreeing with him. He chooses not to answer, instead turning and inserting himself into the other conversation. Freddie’s in the midst of asking her what she does, cat conversation exhausted for now.

 “Since graduation I’ve been working at a record store.” She says and Freddie nods, beginning to grin.

 “Ah yes, we’ve all heard about the fateful musical emporium which brought you two together.” Your smile is smug as another joins the group, a girl who latches onto Brian’s arm comfortably. She looks at ease, utterly relaxed, and you consciously loosen the tension in your shoulders in response to her posture.

 “Who’s this?” She asks, and Brian informs her, “Roger’s sales girl”.

 Roger hastens to introduce you properly, much to the girl’s amusement. In the midst of your introduction more guests arrive at the door, as if any more bodies could fit in the apartment. Freddie leaves to meet them, shouting his greetings from across the room.

“This is Chrissie.” Roger concludes.

 “Nice to meet you.” There’s not a moment between when you finish speaking and when Brian picks up the conversation. You’re not sure what the group usually does when Roger brings girls around, but they do seem deft at placating you, propelling the conversation forward like they care what you have to say.

 “What did you graduate from?” Brian asks, and you can tell he notices your hesitation, just a second too long in answering.

 “Journalism, funnily enough.” You keep your tone light, hoping Roger isn’t paying attention, but he perks up at your statement.

 “Really? I thought you did English.” Roger interjects. He says ‘English’ vaguely, only now realising how cryptic she was when he first asked.

 “I did, sort of.” He looks nothing but confused. Explaining your own white lie is about as unpleasant as you expected. “You started bagging journalists the first night we met, so I thought it best to twist the truth ever so slightly.”

 He lets out a deflated, “oh”.

 He can remember on their first date briefly whining about various publications, music related and otherwise, but he had no idea it would’ve had that effect on her. If it’d been his area of interest that she’d been abusing, he would’ve defended himself. Probably vigorously.

Sitting in Roger’s attempt to process her omission, Brian ends the awkwardness. “Has Roger been awfully arrogant?”

 “No, he didn’t even tell me you guys hit the charts, I had to find out for myself!”

You laugh but realise too late that the joke isn't all that funny. All the confidence you seemed to have moments before is evaporating quickly, and you can feel yourself start to blush.

 “Not like you not to brag, Rog.” Brian says. His attempt to soften the moment is appreciated, though there’s surprise behind the humour. Chrissie’s silent, alarmed. Looking at Roger, you can see he’s not coming up with an answer any time soon, so you jump on the first change of subject you can come up with.

 “I have to say, Seven Seas of Rhye might be my favourite song off the album.” You squeeze Roger’s hand, running your thumb over his skin, afraid to look at him again until you’d gotten some kind of reassurance.

 “You’re a fan, then?” Chrissie asks.

 “Who isn’t?” You joke. Roger squeezes your hand back, lacing his fingers between yours. You take a deep breath.

 “Quite right.” Chrissie says, before either of the guys make a comment about all of the bad reviews Queen II received.

 “All the drums, of course.” Roger adds, the tension between you levelling. He offers you one of his signature smiles, all mischief and affection.

 “Don’t try that, mate.” Brian says, and Roger is just about to argue with him when you interrupt.

“Drink?” It’s obvious that this isn’t the kind of party you enjoy sober, and after the awkward hiccup moments before you could use a beverage.

“Yes please.” His smile is sweeter when he’s making a request, and so is yours. 

“Off you go, then.” You say, and Roger seems entertained, indulging you. Brian laughs before Chrissie pokes him. 

“I’ll have one too, thanks.” Brian gives her a look of protest for a second before following Roger toward the kitchen. You and Chrissie exchange a smile.

“You know, I’ve been so excited to meet you. The girl who conquered Roger.” She starts with an enthusiasm that takes you off guard.

“Oh.” You laugh uncomfortably. You can’t tell how much she’s joking. “I don’t know what he’s told you but I’m sure I don’t deserve all the credit.”

“I’m sure you do. Anyone can tell. He seems really taken by you.” Your delight at her statement is dampened by the doubt that still pulls in the centre of your chest and you can feel yourself getting angry at your surprise, your inability to shake off apprehension. Having been mostly insulated from the speculation of others until now, her observations feel odd, like she knows Roger better than you do. Come to think of it, she might. 

Again, you change the subject. “How long have you and Brian been together?” You ask, tone deliberately casual. 

“Quite a while. I’ve known the guys for years.” She seems to sense your unease, letting the conversation lull and breathe naturally. You’re hardly considering your words before you say them, forethought barred by the uninhibited atmosphere around you. You glance toward the rest of the room, Brian and Roger hardly visible only a few metres away.

“Is it always this crowded?” You ask, feeling a little silly once you’ve said it, but Chrissie doesn’t laugh at you. You glimpse Roger through the shoulders of strangers, joking with a girl with long silver earrings. She laughs loudly, laying both hands on Roger’s chest. You don’t look long enough to see if she’s just drunk or flirting, or what Roger’s response is, a little afraid at what you’d see. Chrissie’s reply seems apt.

“Yes. The boys certainly have plenty of friends.” There’s a pause while Chrissie waits for you to ask something else, clearly keen to speak. Shooting a nervous look back to Roger and Brian, the girl is no longer in sight.

 “It must be very stressful, all the band stuff.” You phrase your next inquiry like a statement, so you can pretend you’re not completely out of your depth.

 Chrissie nods. “I think so. Brian certainly gets anxious. But it’s such fun.” It’s easy for you to see the potential for Brian to be predisposed to worrying, particularly as Chrissie is such a calming presence, suited to balancing out a nervous person.

 “Rog seems a bit nervous tonight. Pre-tour jitters.” You say, half thinking out loud, and Chrissie smiles.

 “More like he’s nervous about what you’ll think of his mates.” You smile back, quietly gratified to think your opinion is of enough importance to Roger to make him restless.

 “They seem lovely so far.” Your embarrassment of moments ago seems distant, your conversation with Chrissie helping you to slip into the flow of the party, confidence authentic.

 “Just wait. We’re secretly terrible.” Chrissie jokes, and you find yourself hoping to see her again.

“You coming to any of the shows?” She asks.

“Yeah, the London ones.” Chrissie glances toward the kitchen but hardly pauses before she asks her question.

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.” You have to accept, and you trust her, but you dread what she’ll say when she stops thinking. The music is still blaring and you can feel yourself slowly warming to the temperature of the room, bodies moving around you leaving the flat in a sticky and feverish heat.

 “There’s gonna be fans. Girls. Lots of them. It’s pretty… intense. So just be ready for that.” Her inflection on ‘intense’ implies more than she says, like it should be accompanied by a shudder.

 You must look shocked. She attempts to soften her message somewhat.

“I just want you to be prepared for what’s waiting outside the green room door. It’s just part of their lives now. And yours too.”

 It doesn’t work. You manage to say, “I’ll keep that in mind”, before Brian and Roger return, a beer for each of you.

 

-

 

Roger doesn’t let you out of arm’s reach for the rest of the night, through a haze of introductions and record changes. Flitting from room to room there seems to be some event happening at every moment, always someone to look at or listen to.

 The chaos is peppered with only slight moments of respite. Like when Roger momentarily loses you in the crowd, forgetting where he left you after speaking to someone else for a couple of seconds, and his relief at finding you just behind him is utterly inordinate, and adorable. After that he hooks his thumb into the belt loop of your skirt, tethering himself to you, always seeming to have one hand in yours, or around your waist, or on your back.

 Or when you visit the bathroom and notice photographs of the band stuck in the frame of the mirror. Like all good photos between friends there’s something wrong with each one; either Brian’s blinking, or they’re all looking in the wrong direction, or it’s out of focus. In a few of them one or two of the guys tries to pose properly, their serene pouting looking ridiculous next to the grins and stuck-out tongues of their friends. They radiate joy and humour, and you can feel a selfish spark of hope that someday this group might consider you a friend as much as they now consider you a stranger; that you could be a part of Roger’s life, part of this ecosystem you’d stumbled upon.

 Or when you catch Roger staring at you for the dozenth time that evening, and his grin after you poke your tongue out at him makes your heart leap to your throat.

 You can feel the eyes of other girls on Roger, and it’s hard not to debate his possible history with them as they look from him to you, some enamoured, some resentful. Every now and again you recall Chrissie’s words, the careful and haunted way she said them, and a chill runs down your spine. But the party keeps you warm, and Roger’s smiles and touches are ample distraction to help you forget.

 Later, the night is coming to a close. The crowd has dwindled to a select group, a few people scattered passed out around the apartment and more stumbling home. Brian and Chrissie are sitting on the couch, almost falling asleep on each other, and Roger’s not much better beside them. Your feet are killing you in some strappy sandals you hadn’t worn since last summer, so when Roger opens his arms toward you, you don’t hesitate to sit on his lap. You tuck your head down onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you. Without the crowd the room is quickly cooling, but he’s warm, even with his shirt hardly buttoned.

 “Did you have fun tonight?” He murmurs. Both of you have your eyes shut. When he speaks you can smell the alcohol on his breath. You hum affirmatively against his shoulder. The longer you sit there, the more you can feel the edges of your senses getting fuzzy, voices harder to distinguish.

When John taps Roger on the shoulder you flinch.

“Sorry mate. You’re sitting on my jacket.” Despite his words John doesn’t look apologetic at all as Roger stands with a groan. He and Veronica swiftly announce their goodbyes. You’ve no idea what the time is but you know it’s very late, and both of the conscious couples left seem as though they would prefer less company. Brian and Chrissie are inching ever closer on the couch, and Freddie and Mary are audibly muttering things you know you’re not intended to hear from the other room.

“I should go too.” You announce. Roger seems to immediately start thinking of ways to prevent your inevitable departure.

“You can’t stay?” You shake your head, and Roger sticks out his bottom lip like a child.

“I have work. Besides, you’re leaving early in the morning.”

“I can drive you home.” He says, unsteady on his feet standing in front of you. You let out a fatigued laugh.

“I’ll get a taxi. You’re pissed.” He shrugs.

“Only a little. At least let me call one.” You acquiesce, but it still takes him a full couple of minutes longer than you would’ve to relay the details. By the time he’s done and you’ve collected your jacket and purse Freddie and Mary have retired to their bedroom, and Brian and Chrissie have achieved an uncomfortable lack of distance.

Roger insists on accompanying you downstairs to wait, though that’s certainly far less inconvenient than his attempt at a phone call.

The two of you stand under a streetlight. You clasp your hands around the strap of your handbag. Roger’s arms swing by his sides.

“Don’t bother calling every day.” You want to reach out and touch him, but the air between you feels impenetrable, a line you can’t cross, like if you make a move toward him you’ll hang on to him forever and never let go. “You’ll be far too busy.”

Roger nods but seems to consider for a moment. “Every other day, I’ll call.” He proposes, shuffling closer to you. Even those centimetres feel dangerous. You’re struck by the terrifying possibility that you’ll cry.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You say, softly, more mournfully than you intended. Roger opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the arrival of the taxi. He shuts his mouth and for a second you’re convinced he’s going to let you enter the taxi without so much as a wave before he abruptly pulls you into a tight hug.

“Don’t go.” He murmurs. He’s got one hand against the centre of your back and another in your hair, and you’re holding him as firmly as he is you.

“I have to.” You can feel his breath on your neck as he sighs. The taxi driver calls out, “haven’t got all night, love”, and you pull away first.

“I’ll miss you.” You would’ve expected him to whisper a comment like that, but he states it at a surprisingly regular volume, like it’s the most uncontroversial fact he’s ever stated. You give him a kiss on the cheek, running your fingers along his cheekbone, almost more intimate than if you’d kissed him properly.

“Good luck. You won’t need it.”


	17. “Quite worth it though, I’d say.”

_ Sunday, 3 March 1974 _

You hadn’t realised how much your life was beginning to revolve around Roger until he wasn’t around anymore. When you weren’t with him or on the phone to him you were thinking about him, planning your next outing or counting down to when he said he’d call or wondering what he was up to. His going on tour feels like undoing a compression around your chest, or coming out from under some kind of unnatural compelling, though the spell he’d cast on you could hardly disappear completely through absence.

Three days into the tour, just as the withdrawal symptoms are setting in, Chrissie calls. She asks to go for coffee, and you jump at the chance to see her again.

Chrissie chooses the place, standing and hugging you as you approach her table, wrapping your cardigan closer around you. It’s just hit spring, but today the wind is chilly and sharp. Though the sun sometimes peeks from behind the clouds, it’s never enough to warm you. Chrissie’s chosen a table just inside the door, and you can feel a draught against your ankles when you sit down.

“How are you?” She smiles widely and you exhale deeply, tucking your legs under the chair and crossing your arms across the table.

“I’m good.” She nods, understanding, and the waiter arrives with her coffee and what looks like a slice of carrot cake. When he turns to you expectantly, you request tea.

Chrissie catches you glancing at her slice of cake, more out of curiosity than anything else, and explains. “Carrot. It’s my weakness.”

“Perfectly reasonable.” You reply, feeling your muscles relaxing, gradually, as Chrissie takes a bite.

“I’m good.” You repeat yourself, and Chrissie raises her eyebrows, chewing, and waits for you to elaborate. “Missing Roger.”

Chrissie nods again, as if it’s obvious, and you can feel yourself blush. “I’m missing Brian too.”

“I suppose this is the life of a rock star’s girl, isn’t it?” Your disappointment is impossible to hide, but Chrissie stills giggles as if you had spoken with humour.

“I suppose it is. Quite worth it though, I’d say.” She says. You nod reluctantly, and Chrissie takes a spoonful of froth off the top of her coffee.

“Brian left me this cute little note when he left.” Chrissie continues. “‘I’ll be thinking of you until I get back’ and that. I can hardly read his handwriting but it’s so very sweet.”

“That’s hilarious.” You don’t want it to be but your smile is forced. Chrissie doesn’t let you dwell.

“So what’s it like working in a music shop?” She’s halfway through her cake slice, drinking her coffee in short sips, still hot.

“Surprisingly boring.” Chrissie chuckles at your honesty. “I want to be doing something else, but I don’t know where to start.” You feel comfortable opening up to her, even if you doubt she knows the significance of the topic to you, how you wince even to speak of job hunting.

“You’ve got a degree, you could do anything!” You shrug. Your tea arrives, milk and sugar and hot water and tea leaves in a quaint floral set. As you busy yourself assembling your cup of tea, Chrissie continues.

“I loved school. Real world is a little less carefree, I find.” She says, and you nod eagerly.

“Definitely.” You stir the contents of your caramel cup slowly, considering. “I fought with my parents so hard to go to university. But after a while…”

“Wasn’t what you expected?” Chrissie finishes your trailing sentence easily.

“No, not at all! Much harder, much more full of nasty men than I expected. I suppose that was naive of me.” Particularly toward the end of your degree, you became more and more aware of the impossibility of survival in an environment in which your male classmates, teachers, potential employers, even your own father assumed you would not succeed. Or that if you did, it would be because you were young and pretty, not talented. It was enough to make you avoid the industry completely since graduation, resorting to retail for a bit of petty cash and keeping yourself there out of fear and convenience.

“No, no. Optimistic perhaps.” You appreciate her generous judgement.

“Yeah. Journalism didn’t turn out to be the meritocracy I thought it would be.” Chrissie’s nodding kindly, like she knows exactly what you mean, though you’re keeping your statements deliberately vague.

“I can imagine.” Chrissie finishes her cake and turns her attention to her cooling coffee, only half drunk. She takes a sip before continuing. “Actually, our receptionist is leaving soon to have her first child.”

“Receptionist would probably be better than retail.” You muse, and Chrissie nods in agreement.

“You’ve got customer service experience. You should think about applying, it pays quite well.”

“For sure. Let me know what I can do.” Outside the window the street is sparsely populated, a pedestrian every few metres, coat collars pulled up. You tuck your legs together as tightly as you can, attempting to stem the goosebumps you can feel climbing steadily up your calves from the breeze slipping under the door. The sky is grey, like it so often is, but somehow it reminds you of the day you first met Roger, the dull and miserable shift made interesting.

“You know, I had no idea what was going to happen when I first went out with Roger.” You feel nostalgic for what was only weeks ago, resting your chin on your palm.

“After you made him wait a week? I couldn’t believe it when Brian told me about that. I love it.” Chrissie’s grinning, her amusement contagious.

You smile back, shrugging proudly. “I thought so.”

“Well, I for one am glad you didn’t reject him outright. Though I could understand why you would.” Whether she’s referring to Roger being famous or sleazy you’re not sure, but you accept it either way.

Far from the doubt you’d felt at the party, speaking to Chrissie leaves you content and hopeful. You talk to her about teaching, about university, about how to style crocheted tops (almost impossible if you want to keep your modesty), and the perils and positives of dating members of Queen, replete with Chrissie’s best anecdotes.

Perhaps it’s just learning about this group, connections so set in stone, history stretching back years, that makes you feel like you’re an outsider. But there still feels like some distance, some irrevocable barrier separating you from Roger that you couldn’t see when you were so entangled, so drunk off his attention. Stepping back, breathing on your own, you can feel that there’s something not quite right, like a picture frame just off centre, one book not pushed back against the shelf, something somewhere that’s preventing the perfection that is so within reach.

Even still, you’re looking forward to seeing him again.


	18. ‘Roger Taylor Talks Queen, Fashion and Drumming’

_ Thursday, 7 March 1974 _

It’s been a month since you met Roger. The first few weeks felt stretched, every second a minute long, and, in comparison, the last week has flown by. But your eight-hour shift feels just as long as it usually does. You’re seriously considering abandoning the failing record store for Chrissie’s cushy receptionist job, assuming you can get it.

The apartment’s empty when you get home, Piper out with friends, or working, or doing something else. You’d always recovered quickly from your arguments, always too petty to hang on to, but ever since your spat the other week there was a tension that couldn’t be resolved. You could feel Piper’s frustration every time you mentioned Roger, so you’d stopped talking about him, which didn’t make for easy communication.

You’ve been letting your laundry pile up so you aren’t planning on sitting down for a while, but as you dump your handbag on the couch you spot something that catches your eye. It’s a teen music magazine, hot pink, aggressively shiny, covered in various photos with captions that scream for your attention. Piper must have left it there, facing the door so she’d know you’d see it on your way in. Upon closer inspection, you can see why.

Roger poses in the corner, sunglasses and a blank expression, dark floral shirt hanging open. The tagline underneath his chin proclaims, ‘Roger Taylor Talks Queen, Fashion and Drumming’. You flick through to the double page spread on Roger, colours just as loud as the cover. Despite working in a record store, you haven’t read a magazine like this in a few years, specifically aimed at teenage fans.

The article’s interview is pretty basic. It lists all the facts a young fan might want to know; his birthday, he started drumming at twelve, he has blue eyes. The article is eager to note his ‘boyish good looks’ that they assume the fans appreciate just as much as they do. The few questions with longer answers are also relatively elementary, asking about his bachelor degree, his stall at Kensington Market. He ‘likes textures’, Roger says, particularly velvet. Though Roger is undoubtedly fashionable it’s still a little jarring to see him questioned as if they were consulting an expert.

The short text is accompanied by a series of photos of Roger making tea, in bed holding his alarm clock, and generally staring broodily into the camera, the page adorned with sparkles and banners. The difference between the sullen model and your goofy and energetic boyfriend is palpable. You’d be laughing if you weren’t so disconcerted. It was all so depressingly predictable; the questions, the design, the poses. Yet the fact that it was him made it all feel foreign. You must have read a magazine just like this one fifty times, poring over the pages in your bedroom or absent-mindedly flicking through one at the hairdresser. Looking at this brightly coloured advertisement for admiration, it’s easy to slip yourself into the position of a fan. But even considering the existence of other people who admire Roger, obsess about him, who crave knowledge and connection with him is utterly alienating. Especially when he starts talking about what kind of women he likes.

You place the magazine back on the coffee table, the volume of the cover’s cries for attention not lessening. The eyes of hundreds, of thousands, have made themselves known to you, and the burden of your relationship no longer sits only between you and Roger. You can feel yourself spiralling, but the more you think about it, the more you succumb to the terrible possibilities your mind provides.

Perhaps you were too hasty in acquitting Roger of all failings. Maybe you were too willing to adjust to his sleaze, his arrogance, his fame, to justify it away into nothingness so you could feel better for being so under his thumb, so desperate for his attention. Tip-toeing around his mistakes because you’re too scared of rejection. You’re just the same as them. No better than the thousands of fans reading the trash mag idolising him like you do.

The magazine sits on top of your coffee table, burning with unsought significance. Next to it, Alfred sits, staring blank eyed and oblivious.

You sigh. The upcoming show looms, far less exciting than it was moments before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here are the inspirations for the magazine if you're interested: [1](https://wombat-pop.tumblr.com/post/184892943050/70s-roger-i-have-about-six-pairs-of-jeans-which), [2](https://wombat-pop.tumblr.com/post/184641202470/ure-gonna-loveme-when-u-seeme-id-like-to), [3](https://wombat-pop.tumblr.com/post/184641193715/roger-taylor-being-a-model-the-thread-we-all)


	19. “What? Are you joking?”

_ Tuesday, 12 March 1974 _

Starting a relationship right before tour was probably a huge mistake. He seems to think about her even more than when he was talking to her daily, forever thinking of things to tell her, jokes and anecdotes to fill their phone conversations. But on day twelve he’s only called three times, far less than he expected to, though every other day was a naive expectation.

Hearing her voice is almost painful, more so when he presses the phone as hard as he can against his ear, shuffling closer to the machine like he’ll be closer to her. If he concentrates, he can feel her hand in his, her fingertips against his cheek, in his hair. When she mentions missing him, he feels like his chest is about to explode.

“I miss you too”, isn’t enough, doesn’t convey his fervour, but it’s the best he can do. She always rebuffs his apologies, and he is genuinely busy, but he knows she must be a little disappointed he isn’t calling more often, making more time for her. His irrevocable craving for her is accompanied by the undeniable flavour of shame, not only for letting her down, but for being so concerned about her opinion in the first place.

They’ve been apart for a grand total of twelve days by the time the first London show rolls around. Roger’s agitated all day, annoying to no end. Even the supporting band, having known Queen only weeks though easily becoming fast friends, notices his restlessness. On top of that, the guitarist for ‘Nutz’, the appropriately horny and hard rock driven support band, Mick, had arrived at the venue to find his guitar had broken on the way, the neck snapped in the van overcrowded with equipment. And the pressure of the several sold out venues that faced them was starting to mount.

Preparation for the tour is a flurry of makeup, hairspray, tuning and anxious waiting, crew and venue staff rushing to prepare the stage and the crowd for the night’s performance. They’d raised the price of admission tonight, and the staff were anxious not to give their customers any other reason to complain. Roger gets to work replacing the face powder in his throat with cigarette smoke, and it’s almost time to go on stage. Nutz have just finished, and by the sound of the crowd it’s a very full house.

He can just see Veronica, Mary and her at the front of the crowd, and every time he looks over, she seems to be smiling, though he can hardly see her from behind the drum kit. The lighting’s rudimentary, and the stage is shoved up against the wall in a basic kind of way, wires and plugs trailing on either side of the platform. Roger’s only got just enough room to sit with no wiggle room, and he can hardly reach his stash of drumsticks when one splinters and snaps in half in the middle of his drum solo. Right at the start of the show, Brian breaks a guitar string. Though it’s quickly replaced, that it happened at all is enough to throw Brian off for at least a couple of songs, judging by his frown.

Right as they’re getting into Great King Rat, the power fails. Freddie manages to keep the crowd entertained, never dropping his charismatic persona, but the others are clearly pissed off. By the time the power comes back on, she’s gone, Veronica and Mary standing alone.

It’s not one of the best performances so far, but it’s not the worst. The crowd loves them, and they finish triumphant after two encores.

Post-performance they move to the bar. When she and Roger reunite the rest of the band share a collective sigh of relief.

He lifts her up in a tight embrace as soon as he reaches her, lifting her off the ground.

“Missed me, did you?” She asks, amused. He can feel himself blush a little as he lets her down, still holding her close.

“You know I did.” He speaks as softly as he can while still being heard.

He’s excited to meet everyone, old fans and new, men who give firm handshakes and girls who sidle up next to him when his girlfriend isn’t looking.

At one point, a girl in a particularly tight skirt murmurs in his ear, “I only really came because I saw some cute guys on the poster.” She’s got one hand holding his arm and the other holds a nearly empty glass. “But the show was so good, you’re really talented.” She’s slurring her words slightly, clutching his arm a little too tight.

“Well, thank you, darling.” Roger replies. The girl is really very pretty, and if she wasn’t so drunk and he wasn’t taken, there’s no question he would’ve at least spoken to her longer. But, for the moment, he gently pries her hand off his arm and returns it to her own person, indulging her in conversation for just a few more minutes before excusing himself. Soon he’s repeating the same lines to escape from another tipsy and oblivious friend of hers, and then another, although he isn’t really counting.

It’s not for a long while, the bar approaching closing time, when he turns to his girlfriend and sees the tension on her face, the stiffness in her posture, the way she’s pressing her lips together.

“You alright, baby?” He asks, rubbing her back. He’s expecting a quick and easy affirmation, but when she snaps back with a curt, “Not really”, he’s not sure what to say.

“You’ve hardly been gentleman of the century tonight.” She adds, radiating negativity. His first instinct, based on her tone, is defensiveness.

“What are you talking about? I can’t talk to people?” He pulls his hand from her back. She stops leaning on the bar, and now they’re facing each other front on, like two predators preparing to clash.

“Of course you can.” She’s raising her voice now. “I just wish you’d… God…” She throws her hands up in exasperation, and Roger crosses his arms.

“Wish I’d what? Tell me, I can’t know what you want!”  The sleep deprivation and the several drinks he’s already consumed is catching up with him, and he wants nothing more than to end the disagreement as quickly as possible, to make her realise there’s no problem and move on without consequence.

“I just feel like you treat me like one of your one-night stands.” Her statement hits him like a slap in the face.

“I don’t even know... why you would say that?” He stammers.

“Not telling me shit-”

“I apologised for that!” He’s not letting her talk, not properly, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to hear what she has to say, too afraid to let her articulate what he’s been fearing all along.

“Oh, and that means I should forget about it?”

“Yeah! What more can I do?” People are turning their heads now, the bar not nearly as loud or crowded enough to obscure their argument. Neither of them are paying any attention, but the other band members have all shifted their focus to the raging couple.

“You can act like you actually want to be with me!”

“I do! You’re the one who didn’t want to make this a huge thing!” His strategy of dismissing her concerns isn’t working in his favour, and now he’s not just tired and drunk and scared and annoyed, he’s fucking mad.

“I have to listen to everyone recite your reputation to me. I get dirty looks from other girls, and you’re off doing god knows what-”

“Don’t bother coming to the next London show if that’s how you feel.” He spits, hardly listening to what she’s saying. She pauses, taken aback.

“What? Are you joking?”

“I’m not bloody joking.” His tone is vicious even to him, and regret starts to creep in as soon as she turns to storm out of the pub. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see someone follow her out, but he’s hardly looking, downing the rest of his drink and storming out the back door in the opposite direction toward their van.

Outside, he’s too angry to think about anything either of them said, pacing and fuming in front of the van until he turns and kicks the tyre so aggressively that the sole of his cheap shoe comes free.

By the time the other guys return to the van, Roger’s curled up in the back, sleeping, his ruined shoe discarded next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a little source i used for this chapter: [source](https://www.barkinganddagenhampost.co.uk/fans-relive-the-night-queen-rocked-the-dagenham-roundhouse-40-years-ago-1-3457560)


	20. “I’m not bloody joking.”

_ Tuesday, 12 March 1974 _

You arrive just a few minutes before the show is scheduled to start, the bus late as buses usually are. It drops you off around the corner of the pub Queen are playing in, and you can see a steady stream of people entering the venue as you approach it.

You enter through the bar at first, easily spotting Mary in her bright green coat. She’s chatting to Veronica, and both of them greet you with a polite smile as you approach.

“No Chrissie tonight?” You say, and Mary answers.

“Unfortunately, no. Work, I think.” You try to hide your disappointment, but you’re sure the others notice how put out you are at not seeing her. She didn’t mention not being able to come last time you spoke, having called just days earlier, but you’re just going to have to deal with a Chrissie-less evening.

The three of you weave through the crowd, finally pushing through to the front. The support band is good, clearly having fun, which encourages the audience to get excited. Your feet are already getting tired, but when Queen come out you join the rest of the audience in welcoming them.

“Thank you, dears, for coming out tonight!” The crowd erupts into cheers at Freddie’s speech. You can’t see how many people there are from where you’re standing, the lights only illuminating the first couple of rows of people, but from the noise you can guess far more than any of the gigs you’d previously attended.

Freddie’s charisma isn’t enough to save the show from losing momentum in technical issues, and it’s easy to feel the band’s discontent with the situation which doesn’t make for a great audience experience. In the chaotic minute in which the audience and band is plunged into darkness, a man behind you manages to empty what feels like an entire pint of beer onto you, saturating your shoulder and arm in room temperature alcohol that leaves you sticky and fragrant.

You retreat to the bar, where you wait until the band is done. Veronica is nice enough to lend you her cardigan while you wait for the boys to emerge, but you’re still gross and uncomfortable.

When you finally reunite with Roger, he hardly gives you time enough to say hello before he’s hugging you tightly, lifting you off the ground as you give a short shriek in surprise.

“Missed me, did you?” You ask, relieved to have your feet back on solid ground. Roger blushes and dips his head down, his hair falling across his face.

“You know I did.” He murmurs.

The band members all give you friendly greetings. They seem to genuinely like you, or maybe they just like a happily preoccupied Roger. Or both.

Alone with Roger you can feel so fearless, shameless. But the effect’s worn out in such a crowded room, and even with his hand in yours you feel a separation from him. Again, the crowd seems to swallow you in it, absorb you into the buzz and the fervour, but this time instead of fitting into the flow of the festivities, matching the energy of the room, you’re painfully aware of how out of place you feel. This is far different to a house party, far different to clubbing with friends. All eyes are on you; an unfamiliar face, Roger’s latest squeeze, another girl for the men to gawk at and for the girls to resent.

Roger’s so excited to meet everyone, a million new faces you’d never seen before, that you’re spending more time with his bandmates and their girlfriends than him. You can see the sympathy in Veronica’s eyes as Roger is pulled in another direction again, his attention demanded by another girl in a tighter skirt than yours, or a guy talking a little too loudly to be comfortable. Of course, Roger’s all but obligated to indulge their requests for his attention. He doesn’t turn them away, and you’re unsure that it’s right for you to think he should.

You spend most of the evening chatting to John and Veronica, the two you’d spoken to the least so far. They’re funny and polite, and feed you with cheerful anecdotes without resentment. The easiness between them isn’t lost on you. Mary and Freddie seem best friends; not quite as affectionate as the others though still seeming congruent in every way. John and Veronica are never further than an inch away from each other, clearly preferring each other’s company while still the most gracious conversation partners. Their connections seem so bulletproof, so perfect, that the fact that Roger seems more interested in making eye contact with anyone but you is all the more insulting.

You can feel your frustration mounting, collecting all of the tiny things you’d let slide, the slights you’d minimised out of existence coming back full force. By the time your brain has presented back to you every grievance you’d tried to repress your emotion is utterly disproportionate to anything that had happened that evening. Any attempt to calm yourself is futile. You’re full of cheap liquor and sugar. You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. But most of all, you’re angry. Completely and forcefully consumed by an anger you’d never experienced before; like every time you had ever been mad at someone combined into one moment.

Finally, after hours of restraint, you snap.

“You alright, baby?” He asks, rubbing your back. His gestures seem patronising, and your tone is poisonous when you reply.

“Not really.” Roger doesn’t reply straight away, his surprise quickly turning into a frown. “You’ve hardly been gentleman of the century tonight.” You continue, and his posture shifts, no longer gentle and affectionate but closed and unfriendly.

“What are you talking about? I can’t talk to people?” The both of you are exacerbating the conflict, bouncing off of each other’s animosity until you’re almost competing for most outraged.

“Of course you can. I just wish you’d… God…” Your stomach is flipping at the emotions running through your veins, nausea creeping up the back of your throat as an uncomfortable chill as adrenaline burns through your muscles.

“Wish I’d what? Tell me, I can’t know what you want!”

“I just feel like you treat me like one of your one-night stands.” You hadn’t realised until you said it just how true it was. Roger’s mouth opens and closes, and opens again. You feel like you’ve lost him already.

“I don’t even know... why you would say that?”

“Not telling me shit-” You’ve long since forgotten that there are other people in the room, you can’t state your grievances loud enough.

“I apologised for that!”

“Oh, and that means I should forget about it?” Roger’s refusal to entertain your concerns isn’t just infuriating, it’s heartbreaking.

“Yeah! What more can I do?”

“You can act like you actually want to be with me!” You can feel your palms sweating, heart beating so fast you’re starting to get dizzy.

“I do! You’re the one who didn’t want to make this a huge thing!”

“I have to listen to everyone recite your reputation to me. I get dirty looks from other girls, and you’re off doing god knows what-” Roger’s not looking you in the eye anymore.

“Don’t bother coming to the next London show if that’s how you feel.” He blurts. You stop, stunned into silence, but he doesn’t take it back.

“What? Are you joking?”

“I’m not bloody joking.”

There’s disbelief, and then the anger comes back, at everything that had happened, at your response and his, at your utter humiliation at having had this argument in front of friends and fans. You turn on your heel and walk out, not looking back to see Roger’s reaction. By the time you make it out the door you’re already crying.

After a couple of seconds you hear footsteps, but they’re far too calm and slow to be Roger’s. John approaches you nervously, waiting until he’s in your line of sight to speak.

“Alright?” His tactless strategy almost makes you laugh, and you muster a half-hearted chuckle as John offers you a sympathetic smile.

“I’m fine. I’m sure you guys deal with this all the time.” You say, wiping your eyes with your sleeves, knowing you’ve probably got mascara all over your face. John doesn’t reply, but stands with you while you try and pull yourself together for the next couple of minutes, warding off onlookers, offering you a cigarette. His presence is remarkably reassuring. There’s no way for you to say how grateful you are, you’re in no position to speak for fear of another bout of tears, but you take his cigarette with a quiet smile, and he seems to understand.

After a few minutes, you exhale and sniff, and he takes this as the cue that you’ve concluded your breakdown.

“Need a taxi?” He asks, gesturing towards the road upon which a bright taxi light advances. You nod, and he hails it for you, even opening and closing your door. You manage to stuff Veronica’s cardigan into his arms just as he shuts the car door, and he gives you an appreciative wave as you drive off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twenty whole chapters! leave an emoji of ur choice in the comments if ur liking this cos this is the longest fic i've ever written and published and im flagging a little... but im not gonna abandon my weird baby
> 
> also feel free to talk to me on [tumblr](https://wombat-pop.tumblr.com/)


	21. “It is my business.”

_Wednesday, 13 March 1974_

Queen isn’t due in Cheltenham until the 14th, following the less than perfect show and public argument of the previous evening. Any gratefulness for a night at home is contradicted by the tension hanging over all of their heads, following them to their respective abodes. As well as the terrible hangovers. 

Roger’s on Freddie’s couch where he passed out earlier that morning, too pissed to get himself home. He’s got one arm lying over his eyes to block the light and one leg looped over the back of the couch. His hair sticks violently in all directions, still wearing last night’s clothes, his shirt so askew it’s difficult to tell where the front is supposed to be. He still has one shoe on. It’s wildly uncomfortable, but he’s too tired to move, so Freddie and Mary are subjected to the vision of an awkwardly splayed out Roger as they make breakfast.

Halfway into Freddie and Mary’s meal of jam toast and tea, John arrives to collect his amp from the van, sneaking maintenance in between shows. He could hardly contrast more with Roger as he stands beside the couch, waiting for Freddie to deliver the van keys to him. He looks remarkably fresh, his shirt recently pressed, the grease from the tour so far scrubbed clean.

Even in his half-conscious state, only one eye open, Roger notices how John looks at him as he collects the keys. When he glances sharply toward Roger a few more times, whispering cryptically to Freddie, Roger decides to speak.

“What’re the bloody looks for?” He calls, still lying on the couch.

“We were just talking about your performance last night. And not your drumming.” John starts, and Freddie crosses his arms, identifying John’s tone as the one he uses when he’s preparing to chew someone out, harsh on the rare occasion he’s dissatisfied enough to argue.

“Oh fuck off. It’s none of your business.” Roger’s irritation twists into a dark anger, his voice low and cautioning.

“It is my business-” John starts, but Roger interrupts.

“Why, has she been shagging you or something? Could’a told me sooner.” Freddie stifles a shocked laugh. John’s expression doesn’t change, Roger’s twisted attempt at humour falling flat, cavalier attitude so obviously built from injured pride John feels like rolling his eyes.

“No”, John begins, voice stern, “because I was the one getting her a cab last night, while you were out the back breaking your shoes.”

John’s disappointment seems to stick Roger like a knife, cutting through his snark with agonising force. “No one asked you to.” Roger mumbles.

“She did, actually.” John says. Roger finally turns his head, lifting his forearm from his eyes, to find Freddie, John and Mary looking at him, all with disapproving stares.

“You guys don’t know what she said.” He blurts, failing to properly make any kind of point.

“I do. I was there. And you were both yelling.” John says, and Roger is silent. His demeanour in comparison to John’s is embarrassing, like a child arguing with an adult far more adept.

“Are you really not inviting her to the next show?” Mary asks quietly, walking over to Freddie and standing behind him.

“That’s her choice if she wants to come, I’m not asking her.” Roger’s crossed his arms too, now, staring at the ceiling like he’ll bore a hole in it if he glares hard enough. John shakes his head, and Freddie scoffs.

“You know what,” John begins, his voice steady. “I think that you’re using this argument as an excuse. Because you’re too scared to commit to someone that isn’t your own bloody ego.”

Roger turns his head. He and John finally make eye contact, Roger’s eyes wide and burning with anger and anguish, John’s sharp with judgement and irritation. After a couple of seconds exchanging glares, John leaves the apartment, abandoning Freddie and Mary to a silent and fuming Roger.

Roger leaves shortly afterwards, muttering bitter goodbyes.

-

_Thursday, 14 March 1974_

Once he’s slept on it, properly, heartache starts to take hold, settling in the pit of his stomach, sickening and warm. The escalation lied with him; she presented her objections and he pushed her away. He spends most of the little time he has left in London wrestling with himself as to whether he should call, whether he should care, or if he should try and forget she ever happened.

Eventually, with two minutes before he’s due to join the others, he calls.

The phone rings once.

Then twice. He holds his bottom lip between his teeth.

A third time.

A fourth, and he’s tapping his foot impatiently.

The fifth ring is followed by an abrupt pause, and then her voice comes through the phone, but not how he’d hoped (or dreaded).

“We’re not home right now. Leave a message!” She calls, cheery and shrill. Hearing her voice stirs the guilt in his gut into a tortuous excitement, makes him hurt more than he thought he could. He gives in to cowardice, and hangs up before the voicemail machine finishes beeping.

It rains all the way to Cheltenham.


	22. “It was my fault.”

_Thursday, 14 March 1974_

Piper doesn’t ask about how the concert went, sticking to your unspoken rule of not communicating about Roger. The two of you exchange blank, evasive glances, as you return from the taxi ride sniffling and silent, as you have breakfast, dark eyed from disturbed sleep, withdrawing to your room, only leaving for work. By the time Chrissie calls early Thursday morning you’ve not spoken a word about your argument to anyone. As soon as she hears your voice she stops her upbeat apologies for not coming to the concert.

“Did something happen?” You’re standing in the living room in your pyjamas, having rushed from your bed to answer the phone. Hearing her concern is enough to make you tear up, and you have to take a second before you speak to make sure it won’t come out as an unintelligible sob.

“Can you come over?” You’re whispering so Piper doesn’t hear, listening for the creak of a floorboard, the rustling of blankets to indicate she might be awake as much as you are to Chrissie’s words.

“Of course, I can come after work today? Late afternoon?” You’re gripping the phone a little too tight, fingertips sore from the lack of circulation, striped white and red.

“Great, thank you.” Chrissie says her goodbyes, and you tiptoe back to your room as quietly as you can manage. A couple of seconds after you return to your bed, you can hear Piper get up and walk to the bathroom.

-

Chrissie’s there that afternoon, coming straight from work to listen to the whole sorry story, all the mistakes you’d both made leading up to this stupid argument that had opened such a rift between you. It takes you almost an hour just to complete the backstory, with all the unpleasant details you and Brian had glossed over previously. Chrissie, knowing Roger, takes a relatively diplomatic stance.

“Roger goes off at the drop of a hat. But he’ll come around.” You nod along to her encouraging smile, but you’re anxious, fidgeting with the end of your sleeve. You’d gone to work and come home only to get into a new pair of pyjamas, your ugliest and warmest jumper over the top. You and Chrissie are curled up on the couch, attempting cosiness in the face of the persistent heavy shower that had rolled in mid-morning and hadn’t yet left.

“Just give yourselves some time.” Chrissie continues. “No relationship has no arguments.” From her tone, Chrissie doesn’t seem convinced that her words will be able to fix the situation, but being able to talk freely is enough for you to ask from her.

“It was my fault really. I let it get bad ‘cos I never brought anything up and then I blew up at him. He didn’t deserve that.” You’re hanging your head over your mug of tea, remorse pulling your body inwards, steam warming your chilled cheeks and nose.

“It’s not your fault. These things happen. Really, he’s acted worse than you.” What a terrible competition, you think.

“Mary and Freddie are always bickering about something or another, every now and again John sleeps on someone else’s couch because Ronnie’s kicked him out. Brian and I have our issues. But if you can work through them, it’s worth it.” You don’t respond, sitting in consideration of her utter undermining of the assumptions you made about their relationships. A clap of thunder sounds in the distance, and Chrissie starts, the noise seeming to draw her attention out of their debrief.

“It’s getting late, I need to be getting home.” She looks to you, all pity and care, and pats you on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

Though to some her words might seem callous, she says them with such conviction that you’re inclined to believe her, offering a solemn nod. She shows herself out, calling, “call me anytime!” as she rushes out the door.

 

Once the clatter of Chrissie’s high heels have faded, Piper pokes her head out of the door to her room. You’d forgotten she was in there, arriving home after she did and turning immediately your attention to Chrissie. Realising Piper must have heard everything in the face of her sympathetic gaze, you can feel yourself start to blush, averting your eyes.

 

“I’m sorry.” She says. “I’m sorry you’ve got to deal with this.” Her apology on top of all of the events that had just happened feels at once like a relief and a burden, another conflict you’re being forced to confront.

 

“It’s fine.” She shakes her head.

“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.” You shrug, accepting her condolences and her wishes without dissent. You still can’t quite forgive her for being so against you and Roger, for leaving you to your own devices, though to be fair you never did take her advice.

 

“What are friends for other than ragging on your boyfriend?” You say, and the two of you laugh together, the first proper laugh you’d shared in a couple of weeks.

 

“You want to pro/con this out, then?” She asks, always methodical, and you groan. “We don’t have to!” She starts to back track, and you shake your head.

 

“No, we should. Just, maybe not today.” Piper smiles and nods, grateful to be back on an even footing, not so stressed at the sight of one another.

 

 


	23. “Hey. It’s me. Roger.”

_Saturday 16 March, 1974_

“It’s your turn, Rog.” After Cheltenham is Glasgow, then Stirling, the days repeating the same routine of travel and gigs and booze and restless sleep. The road to Stirling isn’t long, just long enough for a couple of solid scrabble matches. The van is just big enough to fit the band and their entourage, instruments and people shoved together in close proximity. Roger and Freddie are hunched over the scrabble board wedged in between them, squeezed into a two person seat, both with furrowed brows as they consider the board. Though Roger’s far too distracted for Freddie’s liking. 

“Rog?” Freddie asks again, Roger not moving to indicate he’d heard him the first time, and taps him on the shoulder. Roger flinches.

“What? Yeah, give me a sec.” Brian interrupts his routine of alternating between staring into space and scribbling desperately in his notebook to exchange an exasperated look with Freddie. Roger knows he should be paying more attention but he just can’t shake the unbearable shame that consumes him, the inescapable thought that he’s just fucked up something he could never get back. He’d called again from Glasgow, but again she didn’t answer, and he’s hesitant to leave a message. What could he say that would fix everything, flick a switch and transport him to before this ever happened?

“Come on, I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.” Freddie laments, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his spine, stiff from sitting for hours. John’s taking up much of the little space between them, lying over a couple of seats, legs dangling off the end. He’s got a jacket over his face, presumably asleep, though every now and again he’ll cross his legs the other way. Roger’s just started reaching for his tiles, finally taking his turn, and Freddie starts to celebrate, when John speaks from under his cloth covering.

“Let him sulk, Fred.” He says, muttering mostly to himself, but loud enough for Roger to hear. Freddie deflates as Roger’s hand retreats from his tiles, balling into a fist.

“Shut up, Deak!” Freddie exclaims, more out of frustration at his interrupted scrabble match than a defence of Roger. John doesn’t say anything further, returning to hibernation like he’d said nothing at all. But Roger can’t recover so easily. All the shitty things he’d done, all the insecurity and evading risk just seems petty and pointless. John doesn’t seem to let him forget it, slipping in a remark every now and again that turns him red with rage. 

Brian’s a little more sympathetic. Seeing Roger’s blood begin to boil, he tries to stem the incoming tantrum.

“Come on, Rog, he didn’t mean anything by it.” Roger exhales, teeth still grinding.

“You’re giving me scrabble blue balls, Roger! Do you understand what you’re doing to me?” Freddie wails, throwing his head back as if in agony. His technique is a little more effective than Brian in bringing him out of his brooding stupor. He can’t help but crack a smile at Freddie’s exaggerated distress, clasping his hands to his chest as he begs Roger to play a tile, any tile.

“Okay, okay!” Roger hurriedly places two tiles on the board, turning Freddie’s ‘toast’ into ‘toaster’.

Freddie considers his play for a moment, then comments, underwhelmed. “That’s it?”

Roger shrugs. Freddie snickers. “No wonder she-” “Don’t you dare!” Freddie can’t get another syllable in as Roger interrupts. They’re both laughing, but Freddie knows he can’t push it, not even a little bit, falling quiet as the game resumes.

-

Tour is a good distraction, always something to focus on, somewhere to get to, some instrument to tune or equipment to fix. The Stirling gig is certainly an improvement on some of their recent shows. Without technical glitches, they can really focus on getting the music right. The Stirling crowd seems to hang on their every action, eating out of their collective palm, drawn along each note and harmony. Their applause is thunderous, their heckling humourous, and the band is buzzing with positive energy. 

The four of them hardly leave the stage for their first encore, dashing off and back on again with an eagerness to play. When they come off again, the decision to have a second encore seems made for them, the noise not lessening. Someone mentions the possibility that the crowd won’t let them off the stage, and there’s chuckles all around. When they finally retreat after their third encore, and the crowd doesn’t settle, not even after a full ten minutes, the possibility starts to seem less funny.

It’s difficult to tell what’s happening from the relative isolation of the university’s bare bones green room, but the shouting seems to become less celebratory and more aggressive, and the looks on the faces of the crew go from calm to concerned to panicked.

Brian’s biting his nails, the four of them suspended in horror as they listen to the carnage they’d created from the safety of their segregation. None of them speak, they hardly move, until they’re hastily bundled out of a back exit and into a car. As they’re driving off they pass an ambulance, sirens wailing.

-

_Monday 18 March, 1974_

Once the dust settles two fans and two road crew are in hospital. Their next stop, Birmingham, is postponed while their crew seeks treatment and the police ask questions. 

When they’re not working out logistics or being questioned or asking after their injured crew, they’re holed up in their cheap hotel. With plenty of time to think, it’s easy to sink into guilt and pity. John’s quiet. Freddie, the verbal processor, mutters quietly to himself, not loud enough for anyone else to decipher. Brian, the emotional sponge, dives headfirst into melancholy, spending a lot of his time staring miserably out of various windows. Roger feels sick. He hardly eats, hardly thinks. Just wallows. 

He knew he was making mistakes at the time, but remembering how he’d tried to isolate her from the rest of his life, keeping her in the dark about the things he was doing… It doesn’t bode well that his first instinct was to act so shittily. And that was without the pressure of the limelight getting harder every day. Not that he doesn’t revel in the attention, but fame has its downsides, as the Stirling riot has shown them. He can understand a little more, now, how she must have been feeling, how overwhelming the show must have been. He should have taken her more seriously.

On Monday, still battling a ceaseless nausea, distracted from a lack of food and exhausted from not having a good night’s sleep for almost a week, it occurs to him that he hasn’t called her since last Thursday. Calling her seems like a golden solution, the only action left to take, the only option to relieve his frustration. There’s no one else he’d rather speak to, given what had happened. Damn their argument. 

The phone rings, and rings, and then stops. Again her voice comes through with an assumed briskness. This time when the machine beeps, he doesn’t put the phone down. 

“Hey. It’s me. Roger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one's late... i'm studying in la at the moment and i didn't have time to post while i was settling in! the jetlag from aus to the us is terrible... but should be back on track ish from now. thanks for reading!


	24. “I’ll make tea.”

_Monday 18 March, 1974_  

It had been six days. Well, five. And a half. And he still hadn’t called, or written, or sent a singing telegram to let you know he’d forgiven you, that he was sorry, that he hadn’t decided to rid you from his life altogether and forget all about you as soon as you’d stepped out of that pub. Every day that passed without communication was another step downwards into the pits of desolation, mourning over this relationship you’d poured your heart and soul into to be rewarded with distance and rejection. The more you thought about it, the more the anger and guilt had faded away, until you were left with an empty sense of loss and pity over what could have been, without judgement toward either of you.

You’ve got plenty to distract yourself with, though, your blossoming friendship with Chrissie promptly resulting in a job interview. Receptionist isn’t exactly the height of thrill-seeking, but you’re still excited to try and get it. It pays well, and you’ll be able to see Chrissie more often. And it’ll be far less soul-crushing that pretending to be nice to people who more often that not treat you like dirt, the title of Sales Clerk seeming to forgo your right to courtesy in some people’s eyes. It’s almost enough to make you want to move on, the reboot of a new job, the possibility of a new career. But Chrissie can’t help but slip Brian and Queen into conversation, despite her best efforts, so Roger’s never too far from your mind.

She told you, as soon as it happened, about the chaos of the Stirling show, how people got hurt and how Brian and the others were intensely disturbed by the experience. You can hardly believe it at first, how far things went. It seems to confirm your suspicions, that opening yourself to the world opens you up to the bad as well as the good, that fame takes something from you, seizes a piece of your soul you can never get back. The hundreds of people in that room is too many to care about, too many to feel responsible for. Knowing you were right to be fearful doesn’t make it less awful, or make you less worried.

-

At the end of day six, coming home from work, Piper opens the door to you before you have a chance to retrieve your keys. Her eyes are kind, and she takes your bag out of your hands without allowing you to question her.

“He called.” She says simply, and for a moment you freeze.

“What did he say?”

“I’ll play the message.” She says, placing your things on the coffee table and pressing the button on the answering machine gently, like she’s trying to soften the blow.

“Hey. It’s me. Roger.” Your stomach drops at the sound of his voice, and you have to focus on keeping your breath steady.

“I just… wanted to call you. I don’t know if you heard- well, you probably didn’t. There was a bit of a riot at the Stirling show. A couple of our crew got hurt. Not me, I’m alright. If you were worried about that. It’s just all a bit mental here. Police and such.” You’ve got one hand pressed against your mouth. Piper’s looking at you, but you’re looking at the machine. 

Roger’s recorded voice clears its throat. “I realise you probably don’t actually want to be hearing from me right now. I really fucked up the other night. I want to apologise. To you. So, give me a call, if you can. I mean, if you want to.”

There’s a pause, like he’s hesitating, and then the message ends, the tape stilling.

You’re unmoving for a few seconds, staring off into space with Piper still staring at you intently, like she’s afraid you’ll spontaneously combust.

“Alright?” She asks, and you nod, removing your hand from across your mouth and crossing your arms.

“Yeah.” Your voice is too high, you’re running out of breath to speak with. The thought you’d kept coming back to, kept torturing yourself with, these last few days was the question: how could he ever really love you, love anyone, when so many love him? How could you ever be enough for him, or he ever be enough for you? As much as the sound of his voice made you want to walk all the way to Stirling right then and there, as much as his shame made you want to leave your anxieties behind, those worries can’t be banished by one voicemail message. 

“You gonna call him?” You press your lips together and shrug, the familiar feeling of tears pressing against your eyes rising. Piper stands, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll make tea.”


	25. "It's Roger. Again."

_Friday 22 March, 1974_

Cleethorpes and Mancester pass in much the same way as the last few stops. It’s been a full twenty days since they’d last spoken. Brian, Freddie and John have made their viewpoints known: ‘apologise and respect her decision’, ‘turn up at her flat with roses’, and ‘throw yourself at the feet of God and beg for mercy’, respectively. It’s up to Roger now, and he’s beginning to lose hope.

Whatever he does, he must do something. He’s spending all the after parties moping and aggressive, alcohol turning him terribly anti-social, looking for fights, being rude to fans; especially the girls. Brian, Freddie and John have told him in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t pull himself together he’s going to wake up in the middle of Wales somewhere by himself and they’ll replace him with his sister.

When they reach Canvey Island, he decides it’s time to reach out again. This time, he deliberates before he calls. Paces around outside the payphone practicing his sentences until they’re running around his head, blending together.

_I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted to call you, and say. I want you to come and see me. I wanted to say and call and for you to see me, I wanted to apologise and sorry and call me._

Finally, he steps inside the payphone booth. The floor is sticky with the remnants of last night’s rain. He picks up the phone and dials. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. He feels an uneasy sense of deja vu when the voicemail message plays again. The machine beeps and he takes a deep breath before speaking.

“Hi!” He starts off with a tone that comes across as a little too cheerful. There’s a sticker on the payphone advertising something, half ripped off already by the fidgeting hands of previous callers.

“It’s Roger. Again.” He pauses for a second, all rehearsal forgotten. He finds himself picking at the edge of the sticker, where the last restless inhabitant left off.

“I don’t know if you got my last message. Since you haven’t picked up I’m assuming you don’t want to talk to me.”

On the other end of the phone, you’re just coming home from getting groceries. You’re not working half as much as you usually do. After giving your two weeks notice the number of shifts the record store’s giving you dropped significantly, only just enough to cover your half of the rent. Piper’s having to cover groceries this week for the both of you, lending you cash just for the basics: bread, milk, and biscuits. You burst through the door unceremoniously, ruminating on how much more money you’re going to be making as a receptionist, and quickly realise the voicemail machine is on, and talking.

“...which is fine. I mean, it’s not _fine_. But it’s, uh, understandable.” Roger’s mid-sentence when you enter. You hastily disregard your bags of food to the floor and stand next to the machine, bewitched.

“The next show in London is on the 31st. At the Rainbow. I know you probably won’t want to come but I guess this is an open invitation.” You can hear the slight rustle of clothing suggesting that Roger’s gesturing along to his speech, shrugging as if he’s in the room, but you can’t know for sure.

“I’d love to see you.” Roger’s voice goes quiet, soft. You’re hardly breathing, like if you breathe too loud he’ll hear you standing there.

“I hate that I hurt you and I want to make it right. I just want to be with you. If you don’t want that, I would…” His voice wobbles slightly, and he clears his throat. “Respect that. I just want to hear it from you.”

“I suppose that’s it. I won’t call again unless you let me know that you want me to. I feel like it’s getting creepy at this point. So, bye.” You almost reach for the phone, but he hangs up and the moment’s gone.

-

That night, Queen play the worst show they’ve ever played. Technical glitches, band mistakes, shitty venue, difficult crowd, the works. Freddie even trips over a mic wire and falls, only just keeping on the stage, managing to scrape down the side of his wrist under his costume, which slowly goes pink over the rest of the show. Roger keeps thinking he sees her through the crowd, catching glimpses of a familiar face that keep turning out to be strangers. He’s so distracted during the show that he misses a cue, the others struggling to maintain harmony while he tries to catch up. They all agree afterwards that it was pretty fucking shit, really fucking shit, in fact. Roger goes to bed nauseous again, and he can tell it isn’t just the alcohol.


	26. Queen Live At The Rainbow!

_ Sunday 31 March, 1974 _

Piper and you sit side by side at your two-person dining table considering the large notepad Piper had set out in front of you with ‘pro’ and ‘con’ underlined at the top of the page. The two of you have just re-listened to Roger’s latest voicemail, ending in an invitation to his next concert in London, and Piper can’t hide her animosity.

“Okay, so, cons are he’s treated you terribly, lied to you-” Piper’s writing confidently in large capital letters under the ‘con’ heading. Once she gets a few letters in you protest.

“You can’t write dickhead on the con list!” She doesn’t pause, finishing her word with a flourishing underline. You attempt to snatch the pen off her but she holds it out of arm’s reach.

“You can’t hold the pen, you’re under interrogation!” You stop struggling and sit back in your chair, folding your hands in front of you.

“Fine. Are you going to put anything good on the list?” Piper frowns, like she’s really thinking, and you elbow her playfully.

“You said you’d be balanced!”

“Alright, alright!” Piper rolls her sleeves up and poises with her pen at the ready. “Go ahead. Positives.”

“Uh, well…” Piper raises her eyebrows at your hesitation and you motion to elbow her again, Piper raising her hands in concession. “I really enjoy his company.”

Piper’s complete inability or unwillingness to control her facial expressions is really interrupting your train of thought. “Fuck off. I like him. He makes me feel good.” Piper raises her eyes again, and you qualify your statement. “You know. When there’s not drama. When there’s not drama it’s great.”

“Okay.” Piper’s tentative, but adds ‘like him’ to the pro list. “Any more?”

“Yes.” You say, firmly, and wonder how many positive adjectives you can list before Piper will cut you off. “He’s genuine in his affection, I’m sure of that. He’s exciting and funny and takes me out of my comfort zone. He’s got lovely friends. And he seems extraordinarily earnest on the phone.”

After each point, Piper adds a phrase to the list, ‘likes me’, then ‘exciting’, then ‘friends’, then, ‘earnest’. “Okay, now time for cons.”

Piper stares you down, waiting for you to list the problems you’re all too aware of. “He’s got a temper. He’s got some issues that makes a relationship difficult. But don’t we all.”

Piper waves her hand for you to continue, not acknowledging how you try to justify him. So far she’s written, ‘angry’ and ‘insecure’.

“Also, he’s famous. Kinda.” Piper adds ‘famous’.

“He apologises for shit though. And he cares about my opinion of him. Write that on the pro list.” You point to the pro section, and Piper complies with a grumble.

“We’re thinking of cons, remember?”

“That’s it!” Piper holds the list up, four to four, though you can’t help but feel this list isn’t comprehensive. You both consider it for a moment, and Piper places it back on the table.

“You gonna go to the show?” She asks. The voicemail had made you long to see him again, but you know you can’t run back into his arms immediately.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.” Piper nods, tapping the end of the pen on the table.

“You don’t have to go backstage and see him. Why not go to the concert like a regular person? Get it from their point of view?” It hadn’t occurred to you that you could go as an ordinary fan, see Roger without him seeing you.

“Maybe I will.”

-

You hadn’t been to the Rainbow since you were a child, though you’d passed it many times, the street always bustling with people keen to get inside. You’d scored a ticket out the front, one of very few left, it would seem, as the room is bursting at the seams with avid Queen fans. It’s an old building but recently renovated, so inside it all looks brand new. The line for the bar is a mile long, but you’ve got nothing else to do but wait, so you queue.

With your tiny beer you retreat inside the doors, lingering around the back of the standing area. The attendees are mostly young and trendy looking, the university crowd Queen was used to playing. There’s a loud hum of conversation that doesn’t quite die down during the support band’s set, but there’s a moment of hush when the lights dim again and before ‘Procession’ begins to play. The temporary silence seems to stretch, a hundred mouths inhaling in jubilant expectation, and the music begins.

It only takes seconds for you to be struck by the difference between this show and the last one you’d gone to. And not just because the venue is better. The cheers melt into applause and then singing, the off tune, off tempo singing of an enthusiastic crowd. You can’t quite see all four of the band at once from where you’re standing, swaying aloofly along to the beat, but Freddie hardly needs to be seen for his presence to be felt. He seems to occupy all available space, not an inch of dead air in the room. By the end of ‘Father to Son’ you’re slowly weaving your way through the crowd, pushing further to the front.

“Good evening! I see you’ve all come out in force.” Freddie’s grinning from ear to ear, eyes darting from face to face of the crowd before him. “How’re you feeling?”

There’s a few shouts from in front and behind you. Freddie’s eyes dart over you, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s seen you or not. If he does, he doesn’t let on. “I think I’ve seen most of you before. In fact, I’ve seen nearly all of you before!”

“We’d like to do something from our Queen II album now.” More shouts, and Freddie chuckles. “Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s a number entitled, ‘Ogre Battle’.”

‘Ogre Battle’s long and winding opening begins, and you make it to a couple of metres out from the front, the crowd packed too densely to try and get any closer. You’re not quite moving of your own accord any more, the crowd’s movements dictating your own, and that of those around you, swaying and bouncing in time to the music. At the last show the crowd was a malevolent force, aggressive and overwhelming. But this time it’s friendly, like a pack of old friends united by the sound of Freddie’s voice. You swear you can see the wails of Brian’s guitar during his solo manifest in front of your eyes, long and spiralling strings of colour and sound, the crowd silent but still electric with activity. You’d expected it to be more painful, hearing Roger’s voice, the light every so often catching the shimmer of his gold embroidered shirt behind his drums. But being part of the audience makes it a little easier to forget what you’d done to each other, to lose all personhood in the haunting melodies of ‘White Queen’, the bass in the bottom of your ribcage, and when ‘Seven Seas of Rhye’ comes on you throw your head back and call the lyrics as loud as the rest of the fans.

You understand, now, a little more, a part of Roger you’d previously thought of as a hindrance. While you’re sure everyone in the theatre that night felt as though they were mates with the band, actually knowing them makes it all the more gratifying. Like you’ve comprehended some unspoken truth between the four of them and their closest companions that before you’d missed.

You’re not wholly satisfied that your concerns won’t come true, not yet. But you’re assured enough to make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn't know, you can listen to this concert on the deluxe version of the live at the rainbow album which also has the november show on it :)


	27. “Do you know her?”

_ Monday 1 April, 1974 _

They’ve still got their postponed Birmingham show tomorrow, but for the moment it feels like the tour’s over. Last night’s show, the big finale at the Rainbow, went extremely well, a positive note to end a tour full of ups and downs. For now, it’s business as usual, all back in their own beds.

Freddie mentions off hand that he might have glimpsed a familiar face in the crowd, in between the crowd muddled by smoke and lights. He blurts it more out of surprise or curiosity than anything else, but Roger can’t let it go despite Freddie’s disclaimers. Roger doesn’t sleep well, his own apartment feeling cold and unwelcome after so long away. It always takes him a few days to settle back into a routine after touring, such a departure from ordinary life. He hasn’t got any food, and he doesn’t feel like staying in. So, he goes out for lunch, having woken up when the day had already hit afternoon.

It’s pleasant, sitting alone after living in the pockets of a dozen other people for weeks. The sun is out, shining warmly down on the street, humming with weekday activity. He sits lazily in the buzz of an urban centre and lets himself revel in anonymity.

Afterwards, he finds himself driving through her neighbourhood, not consciously looking for her, though he can’t get the idea of her out of his head. He stops outside the record store, open sign flashing in bright red neon. He parks and goes inside with hardly any thought, not letting himself think of the consequences of what he’s doing.

Inside, it’s quiet, just one other customer. He can hear someone in the back room behind the register stamping prices onto new stock, but they’re too far into the doorway for him to see them.

He winds his way through the rows of records and tapes, stopping every now and again to glance toward the unending sound of the mystery employee.

Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Roger finally works up the courage to place himself in direct line of sight to the register, and is disappointed to see it isn’t her. He manages to look up just as the employee looks back, meeting his eyes. Roger looks away, but he isn’t quick enough to escape the employee’s notice. The employee’s eyes widen in surprise, and as Roger desperately stares at the latest country music releases, he can hear the employee hastily putting down the stock and making his way over to Roger. There’s no escape, as the hurried footsteps get closer and closer, blocking his way to the exit.

“Can I help you at all, sir?” The saccharine tone to his voice puts Roger on edge, remembering too late the crowd chaos of the Stirling concert, regretting his decision to enter a music shop having placed in the charts just weeks before. His name tag reads, ‘Luke’.

“No, just browsing.” Luke is staring at him intently, excessively interested in his face, it seems, following him as Roger attempts to angle his body away.

“Has anyone ever told you, well, perhaps you don’t know, have you heard of the band, Queen?” Roger sighs internally, and gives up.

“Yes, I’m the drummer.” He states flatly. Luke’s face lights up, breaking into a wide grin.

“Oh wow! I am such a big fan. I saw you guys on your last tour-” Roger interrupts Luke’s shameless enthusing, a little shorter than he usually would be, but he’s tired and hungover and in no mood to wait for Luke to finish what he can see is going to be an extensive speech. When he asks about her, Luke looks confused.

“Oh, she doesn’t work here anymore. Hasn’t for a couple of weeks. Do you know her?” Luke’s bewilderment at Roger’s question lets Roger slip past him in the aisle and make for the door.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it. Have a great day.” Roger calls, speed walking towards the exit.

By the time he’s back to his car, Roger’s kicking himself. It’s not just that it was up there with his worst fan interactions – hopefully Luke thinks it was all an odd April Fool’s Day prank. It’s that he went in there looking for her after he said he’d leave her be. She seems to be moving on, finding a new job, not calling him. It probably wasn’t even her at the Rainbow. She doesn’t owe him anything. He shouldn’t pester her. She can find better than him. Maybe he should move on too.

He spends the rest of the afternoon lazing about in parks and pubs, avoiding going home until the sun goes down and the streets start getting busy with nightlife, dark streets lonelier than when they’re flooded with sun.

He’s just getting home, wondering what on earth he’s going to do with the rest of his evening, and the phone rings. He picks it up absentmindedly, assuming it will be someone confirming something for Birmingham tomorrow, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

“Yeah?”

“Roger?” He’s so shocked at the sound of her voice he’s silent for a few seconds, frozen with one hand gripping the phone and the other still on the door handle.

“Hi.” He exhales, unable to come up with another syllable.

“I’ve gotten all your messages.” He can’t quite read her tone, it feels controlled. The idea of moving on seems laughable, now, with her voice making his breath catch in his throat, the possibility of her affection making his heart beat out of control.

“Oh. Good.” He pauses until the gap between sentences stretches a little too long. “And?”

“Now I’m ringing you.” He lets out a breathless chuckle, and then they both fall silent. He’s still trying to come up with the perfect apology, but she breaks the silence first.

“We both kind of fucked it up, didn’t we?” It’s so straightforward, such an honest summary of the situation it takes all the weight out of any grand apology either of them might’ve done.

“I suppose we did.” Repairing her image of him seems like a backwards priority; she knows him, knows what he’s done. There’s no use trying to hoodwink her into thinking he’s better than he is. He takes a deep breath and shares the thoughts he’d been mulling over since they last spoke. “I was just... scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you. Of a relationship... I think I just saw an easy way out and I took it.” It feels like emptying a part of him, saying it out loud, letting go of a tension he’d been holding for a long time.

“Out of us?” She doesn’t sound angry, but there’s an underlying note of hurt despite her continuing deliberate tone.

“Yes. But I don’t want out.” He can hear her exhale on the other end of the line, and he holds his tongue against the many assurances he wants to give her.

“I don’t want out either. But I don’t want this.” She emphasises ‘this’ as if to gesture to the last month of separation with a critical hand.

“I swear, I will never treat you like that again.” He can almost hear her shaking her head.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to make promises you can’t keep?” She says it lightly, like it should be a joke, but there’s no laughter in her voice.

“I mean it.”

“I believe you.” There’s a pause, and he waits with hopeful anticipation for her to speak again. “When does tour finish?”

“We’ve just got the postponed Birmingham show tomorrow and we’re done.” He’s tripping over his words in an effort to finish talking as soon as possible so he can hear her reply.

“Why don’t you come over on Wednesday then? I think we need to talk in person.” He hopes he isn’t presumptuous in hearing a little bit of hope and excitement in her voice too.

“Absolutely, yes.” He’s nodding vigorously to an empty room.

“Eight?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t want to be the first one to say goodbye, so he waits until she does.

“Bye.” There’s a click and she’s gone.

Roger rubs his eyes, and remembers the front door is still wide open. It swings shut with a loud bang, enough to snap him back into reality. He’s quick to write down his appointment with her, afraid that he’ll forget or assume he dreamt the entire conversation up.

Sure enough, in the morning his notebook is the first thing he checks, ‘Wednesday, eight o’clock’ printed in a rushed scribble beside a bunch of geometric shapes he drew at lunch the previous day. What a lucky bastard he is, to have found someone like her, to potentially have come back from a colossal fuck up, to be playing a show tonight with his best mates doing what he loves to do. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow, and he grins, and he grins and grins all the way to Birmingham and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks like this posted twice by accident, sorry! fixed now


	28. “I missed you.”

_Wednesday 3 April, 1974_

You were so anxious before Roger arrived, beyond reassurance. Piper had made herself scarce half an hour before he was due, with a squeeze of your hand and an imploring gaze. You were sure it was going to be awkward, the two of you aloof and restrained, distance killing any easiness that had been between you. But when you open the door and you see him again, for the first time since you’d both yelled at each other in front of friends and fans, almost a full month since you’d last been on proper speaking terms, those expectations dissipate. Your eyes meet his and you want to burst into tears, Roger’s face screwing up in reflection of your own expression. There’s less than a second of the two of you standing apart before you’re embracing, neither of you sure who initiated it.

He smells familiar, filled with the same nostalgic emotion that takes you back to a vivid memory you’d never think of without the reminder, like the smell of your grandmother’s perfume perfectly conjuring what her dresser looked like when you were seven years old. You see his exact expression the moment you’d first kissed each other, his hair in his face as the sea breeze wrapped around you, the stupidest smile on his face.

“I missed you.” His voice is slightly muffled by your hair, but you can hear the unmistakable wobble to his voice. When you pull back his eyes are wet, and he wipes them hurriedly. Though he’s a little sheepish he makes no effort to hide his emotion. And neither do you.

You sit on the couch, and the initial relieved tears you shed turn into sad and angry and frustrated tears as you both process your situation. He sits and listens as you unburden the weeks of pent up emotion, all the insecurity and regret and blame and resentment you’d been sitting on, projecting the unanswered questions and unknowns onto an absent figure you’d built in your own mind. The real Roger is far more human that the man you thought you’d known. You rant and he listens, and he doesn’t look away, not even when you’re harsh, not when you’re vulnerable or embarrassing.

“I just kept thinking, we’d only known each other for weeks and here I am, fucking it up.”

“That’s exactly what I thought!” You let out a grateful laugh, dampened by tears, and wipe your eyes again. Roger’s still shedding the occasional tear, letting them roll down his cheeks and neck into the collar of his shirt. You hug again, your head on his chest, lying on your couch long enough for your heart rate to go down and your cheeks to dry.

Eventually, he tilts his head down to look at you.

“You wanna go out on Friday? Pub, with the boys?” He says it nonchalantly, but it feels like a milestone, the barrier keeping him from integrating you into his life seemingly lifted, or at the very least lifting.

“Sure.”

-

_Friday 5 April, 1974_

“The guys are going to be really glad. John especially.” You’re walking hand in hand to the band’s favoured pub, the evening mild, warmth persisting as the sun sets.

“Really?” You’re flattered at their concern, their willingness to disagree with their friend over thinking worse of you. Though you wouldn’t really expect anything less.

“Yeah, John was pissed.” Roger sounds disturbed by the experience, speaking like he’s remembering an unpleasant event. “For good reason.” He adds.

You reach the door to the pub, weaving through the happy cliques of drinkers to find his friends tucked away in a large booth at the back. The walls are panelled in wood, darkened from the smoke of a thousand cigarettes. Above the various tables and booths is a high shelf that runs all around the edge of the pub, attached to the ceiling. It holds old tricycles, a broken record player, a cricket bat, an equestrian helmet, an eclectic mix of trinkets to decorate the dark and cosy space. At the sight of you, Brian and Freddie break into applause, the others joining them in cheering your entrance.

“I don’t believe it! I thought she was going to send you off with a slap for sure!” Freddie exclaims, his mouth wide in shock. John chuckles.

“That’s not what you said earlier!” Roger points at Freddie in accusation, but Freddie just shrugs and smiles, dismissing Roger’s complaint.

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now. Welcome back to the family, darling.” Freddie gestures for you to sit in an empty seat across from him, between Chrissie and Roger.

“More like a madhouse.” Chrissie adds, greeting you with a light kiss on the cheek.

Roger goes to fetch the two of you a drink. By the time he gets back, carefully balancing two overfilled glasses of wine, you and Chrissie are happily poking fun at your respective boyfriends, egged on by the two couples opposite you.

“Sometimes he just says something, and I think, what on earth?” You’re laughing as Roger sets down the two glasses he diligently carried over and sits next to you. “It’s like he’s speaking another language.” Chrissie adds. Brian’s smiling warmly at her, it clearly being not the first time she’s expressed this sentiment.

“I’m sure you can relate to that.” Freddie comments, nodding in your direction. Roger protests, but you’re all laughing together. They’d never previously seemed cold, but for some reason you feel more connected with them now than ever.

“Brian’s quite romantic, though, isn’t he?” Mary offers, and Brian’s expression goes smug, confidently nodding in agreement.

“Well...” Chrissie replies with comical skepticism given Brian’s assurance, his smug smile quickly turning to a frown.

“Just the other day I brought you home roses.” He protests, the rest of the group delighted as Chrissie refuses to give in to his appealing tone.

“Well, they did still have thorns on them.” Chrissie’s unimpressed stare only encourages the steadily increasing snickering. Brian presses his lips together.

“Okay, well, how was I supposed to know that they don’t always take those off?” Chrissie can’t hold her disappointment for the sake of a joke any longer, breaking into a smile and joining the others in giggling, placing one hand on Brian’s arm.

“It was lovely, Bri. Very romantic.” Her attention turns to you, changing the subject. “What about Roger?”

“Oh, I’m not sure.” You turn to look at Roger, who looks a little concerned. He visibly gulps while you put on a show of thinking, bringing your hand to your chin. But when you offer him a small smile, he returns it. You finally settle on, “a picnic is romantic, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” Brian looks pointedly at Roger, smiling. “It is!” Roger rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Roger can be very romantic, when he wants to be.” You and Roger exchange a look, smug and comfortable. You can feel the red wine warming you from the inside out, muscles slowly relaxing inside the light and cheerful ambience of the pub. You shuffle your chair a little closer to Roger’s so your leg is pressed up against his, your hands clasped and resting easily on your lap. No one had mentioned your argument and subsequent almost break up after you first arrived, the others managing to pretend nothing had happened to an impressive degree. You’d prefer that to having to explain yourselves all over again. Sharing that look with Roger, his eyes sparkling with amusement, such affection in his gaze, you’re happy to be back at the beginning again.

Roger seems to be observing your interactions with his friends throughout the evening, mostly with a smile at the edges of his mouth that makes you feel more appreciated than watched. It takes him a while to comment on you and Chrissie’s sudden proximity.

“I didn’t know you two were such fast friends.” You and Chrissie look at each other and shrug.

“Well… you certainly know how to pick them.” Chrissie says. Roger smiles and looks like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t. 

“Chrissie’s gotten me a new job, so I’ve finally escaped retail.” You expect him to look excited, but there’s a second where he looks blank before the smile kicks in.

“I know.” He says, a little sheepish, and you look at him quizzically. “I went to the record store on, uh, Monday, and they told me you didn’t work there anymore.”

He seems to be bracing for your reproach, but you don’t have it in you to tell him off. Really, it’s endearing that he was still reaching for you, just as you were about to reach back. And you can’t help but notice his effort in making sure he told you, despite the ease of letting you continue to be unaware of his actions.

“Wait, who was working?” It suddenly occurs to you that Roger is famous, that Monday was April 1st, and that one particularly objectionable coworker was likely to have been working on a Monday morning.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I think his name was Louis, or-” Roger’s frowning trying to remember.

“Luke?” You exclaim, grinning. John, Veronica and Mary glance momentarily from their conversation at your outburst, though Freddie and Brian continue theirs.

“Yeah, probably.” You laugh, though everyone but you looks confused.

“Long story, but that’s hilarious. I’ll have to explain later.” Roger shrugs, and you attempt to change the subject, worried your private joke is ruining the conversation. “But it’s been lovely, at the new job.”

“She’s been doing great, natural born receptionist.” Chrissie offers, and you balk at her compliment.

“God forbid!” The three of you share a chuckle, and you can see Chrissie gain a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Why don’t you come to breakfast with us tomorrow?” Chrissie asks, her facade of innocent inquiry undermined by the obvious amusement she takes in watching Roger’s turmoil.

“What time would that be?” Roger attempts for an unfazed persona as well, but his struggle is clear when Chrissie informs him of the scheduled time, torn between accepting, and demonstrating his commitment, or refusing and having a lie in.

“About seven.” 

“In the morning?” He stalls. You and Chrissie share an amused glance.

“That is generally when you have breakfast.”

“Yeah, I’d love to, actually.” He says, aiming for dismissive. “I usually do my morning run about 5:30 so seven’s a bit late for me, but I’ll manage it.”

Chrissie bursts into laughter, and so do you.

He does manage to come to breakfast the next morning, sunglasses pushed firmly against his face to combat the rising sun. His conversation is lacking, he spends more time rubbing his eyes than saying anything coherent, but he comes and doesn’t complain. He calls later, post-nap, to tell you how much fun it was catching up with you and Chrissie, though perhaps next time they could do it at a more reasonable hour? You appreciate his dedication, and his ability to form sentences, so you agree. Though his bed-head was worth the cruelty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we're back. thanks for your patience lads. on the home stretch now!


	29. “Good day?”

_Thursday 11 April, 1974_

Every spare moment not focused on work or necessities since you and Roger are reunited is consumed by mending your injured relationship, both of you eager in your desire to work well together. Taking a leaf out of Brian’s attempts at romance, Roger even goes so far as to send a modest flower arrangement to the school. He addresses it simply to ‘darling’, a name he’d hardly ever called you in person but which on paper looked so pretty and sincere. It was probably the cheapest arrangement he could get, five or six red carnations in a blue cardboard holder with a white ribbon tied around it. Chrissie is delighted when you tell her at lunch, though she quickly confesses that Roger had asked her and Brian for advice on what to get.

“I told him to get roses, but he said that was too stiff and boring. What people get for their mothers, he said.” Your laugh is muffled by the bite of cheese sandwich you’re in the midst of chewing. The two of you are sitting under one of the two lonely windows in the teacher’s lounge, a warm light diffused through a cloudy sky illuminating the dark wooden table laden with Chrissie’s unmarked work she’s desperately attending to between sentences. 

“I’m not sure carnations are that much better on the motherly gift front, but I’ll take it.” As much as you joke, your appreciation is clear. 

Roger comes over to your apartment that evening, his smug expression as you open the door leading you to quell an eyeroll. 

“Good day?” He asks, making his way into the living room with what you can only describe as a strut. He stops sharply in the middle of the room and turns, right behind the coffee table which boasts his flowers, as if to present your own living room to you. 

“It was alright.” You hardly try to feign indifference, breaking into a grin in a second. You cross the distance between you, throwing your arms around his neck, much to Roger’s amusement.

“Did you like them very much?” He wraps his arms around your waist, the two of you standing easily in a close embrace, both melting into each other’s grasp as comfortably as putting on a well worn pair of jeans, as effortlessly as a needle slides in between the grooves of a vinyl record.  

“I did. It was very sweet.” The sun is just starting to lower behind the horizon, bathing you in a deep orange hue and throwing shadows across the room. It’s impossible to tell who starts it, but you’re soon kissing gently, pulling each other closer until you can hardly breathe. 

When you finally stop to catch your breath, you and Roger take a couple of seconds to regain the ability to think. As you do, you can’t help but smile at his dopey expression, cheeks pink and eyes partially closed. After a second he starts to smile too.

“What?” He asks, and you shrug. Neither of you move from your embrace.

“You’re just pretty.” He smirks. You can feel his thumb rubbing slow circles on your lower back. It occurs to you that you should look away, but you’re enjoying the two of you gazing at each other too much not to see how long you can push it. You register that Roger mutters something, but it’s not for a few seconds that you process it.

“I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

If you’d been paying attention you might’ve been able to convey your own relief better, but at the moment the best you can come up with is to kiss him again, hope that your emotion comes through in the way you grip his shoulders, a warm breath cast over his cheek. You rest your head on his shoulder, happy to stay in his arms for the time being.

“I do have something else.” Roger announces, swaying the two of you slightly from side to side. He never could keep still. You raise your head and frown.

“You haven’t gone overboard, have you?” Roger shakes his head.

“I haven’t, I promise. Get changed, we’re going out.” You raise your eyebrows, still a little skeptical, but you go and change, ready to go within a half hour.

In the car, you wonder where he might be taking you - perhaps that little Italian place again - but you don’t have to wait long before you arrive. Parking haphazardly, Roger coaxes you along the pavement until he stops triumphantly.

“May I present to you, the best curry in London.” He says, gesturing widely. Your grin returns and you’re in the restaurant before Roger, eager to replace the god forsaken memory of Roger’s curry with a better one. 

Roger explains each of the dishes as best he can with the gaps in his knowledge, categorising most as either “fucking great” or “a bit shit compared to that one but still good”, but you think it’s all delicious. When he asks for your review, it’s “definitely better than yours”.


	30. "Come to America."

_ Saturday 13 April, 1974 _

You’re sitting on Freddie’s couch watching a film on television that you’d seen before, but you haven’t really been watching for a while. Roger’s sitting on the floor in front of you, his head leant back against your knees. Somewhere near the start of the movie you’d started running your fingers through his hair, and he hadn’t complained, so over time you’d started plaiting and braiding his hair absentmindedly. The sun is slowly beginning to descend, brilliant pockets of orange illuminating the room from between the roofs of the neighbouring houses. You can feel the cool night air settling into the sun’s absence, the kind of melancholy evening cold that forces you into old jumpers and warm cups of tea to ward off a low mood. Freddie’s sitting beside you, happily chatting, Mary still at work.

“I am dreading the flight, it’s going to be twelve hours or something ridiculous like that.” Freddie’s slowly working his way through his anxieties about the tour, it being their first visit to America, you and Roger only intermittently offering consolation. So far, he’s speculated about the food, and the weather, and the roads, and the crowds, and now he’s arrived at the most imminent concern.

“That is awful. At least you’re not going to Australia again?” You feel like your comments are superfluous, but Freddie seems to be gaining something from speaking his apprehension aloud regardless.

“Oh, yes. That was…” He shakes his head, making a face like he’s eaten something sour. “Too long.”

“We’ll be there before you know it, Fred.” As much as Roger joins you in comforting Freddie, you can tell he’s nervous too, tapping his fingers against his thighs as he sits with his legs outstretched. You settle into silence as the film plays, and you succeed in pulling all of Roger’s hair into one braid, placing it carefully down in between his shoulder blades and admiring your handiwork. You point Roger’s new style out to Freddie, who gives you an approving nod.

“Tea, anyone?” Freddie stands and walks to the kitchen, you and Roger both calling out a “yes!” after him. As soon as Freddie’s out of sight and the kettle starts to boil, Roger twists to look at you.

“Why don’t you come to America with us?” He blurts, hardly waiting until he’s turned to look at you to speak. For a moment all you do is look at him, surprised by his sudden offer, and then you’re frowning in deliberation.

“I can’t go on holiday right now, I’ve just got this new job.” His eyes are wide and hopeful, not discouraged by your apologetic tone. He takes your hands, holding them together on your lap.

“You don’t have to come for the whole thing, just a few days.” His hair is slowly falling out of the unsecured braid you’d done, hanging prettily around his pleading gaze. “We can get Chrissie to organise something for you.”

“I don’t know Chrissie will be happy with that.” Your reproach has no teeth, a smile making disapproval slip easily off your tongue, replaced with amusement.

“She’ll be fine.” Roger insists. You’re still hesitant. Roger’s expression softens, and he speaks softly. “I’ll miss you too much if you don’t come.”

All will to protest evaporates in Roger’s affection. You know you’ll miss him too. He can see your resolve, shakey as it was, begin to crack, and he grins, that cheeky, infectious grin he knows you can’t resist.

“Alright.” Roger beams, jumping up onto the couch just to kiss you. Freddie returns, balancing three mugs of tea, and scoffs.

“I leave the room for five seconds…”

-

_ Saturday 20 April, 1974 _

The American tour bus is a big improvement from the vans and minibuses they’ve had so far. Enough room for Brian to stretch his inordinately long legs, and for John to move his naps from across several uncomfortable seats to the cold, hard floor. They’ve even got a proper table for scrabble, though it only just makes up for the misery of spending most of their days on a moving vehicle. A little stained in places, the unbearable blandness of beige walls and beige carpets and beige ceiling creates an atmosphere of lethargy completely at odds with the rest of their days.

Roger has squashed himself on the end of the bench seat at the back of the bus, Brian sitting opposite him, Brian’s legs taking up most of the space. Though they both have the choice to move to somewhere more comfortable, being so used to fitting themselves into small spaces is a habit difficult to break. Brian is writing, scribbling feverishly in his notebook. He had only woken up less than an hour ago though it was already afternoon. Brian seemed to be able to sleep through the bus’ movements but the others struggled, and they still had a few hours ahead of them. Still, Brian looked incurably tired. Roger felt that way too.

Roger is tapping absentmindedly on his knees, having abandoned any attempt at distraction. She’s arriving today, from home, and Roger knows he can’t fuck this up again. It was at the last gig she came to that they had their big row, and he was determined not to let that happen again. If he could help it.

“Bri?” Brian hums briefly, but keeps writing. Roger waits, longer that he would wait for anyone apart from members of the band, knowing that any questions posed to the other guys while they’re writing would be wasted. After a few seconds, Brian sets down his pen and pushes some hair out of his face, looking at Roger expectantly.

“This is gonna come off a bit wankerish…” Roger starts, and Brian frowns as if in deep confusion.

“From you? Never.” He says sarcastically.

“Oh, shut up.” Roger rolls his eyes. “I mean… What do you think I should do, cos, you know, you’ve had your girlfriend come to some bigger shows. I don’t want her to get…”

Roger gestures vaguely in the air towards nothing, holding eye contact as if Brian will be able to read his mind. Brian nods slowly, though his expression remains mystified. 

“Overwhelmed?” Brian offers, unsure.

“Yes, that’s what I mean. I just want her to have a good time. So, what do you think?” Roger lets his hands fall.

“What do I think you should do?”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Brian considers for a moment, flipping his notebook closed and clasping his hands on top of it, resting on his lap. “I’d say just ask her.” He states simply.

Roger looks at him, expecting more. “Ask her what?”

“If she’s feeling alright, if she needs anything. She’ll tell you, if you ask her.” Brian is earnest, but Roger is doubtful.

“Right.” Roger says slowly, as if he’s decoding Brian’s sentences while he speaks.

“The roadies’ll look after her backstage anyway.” Roger gives Brian an unconvinced look, and Brian acknowledges Roger’s misgivings with a shrug. “She’ll be fine. Just check in every now and again."

“Okay.” There’s a couple of seconds of quiet in which Roger tries to become less confused, and Brian tries not to be so baffled at Roger’s confusion. 

Eventually, Brian adds, with no small amount of perplexity. “And that’s not wankerish.” 

Roger shrugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little something for all u morosexuals out there.


	31. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

_Saturday 20 April, 1974_

Chrissie was so enthusiastic about supporting you and Roger’s reunion that she sorted out your time off within 24 hours, and after a week of hurried preparation you’re off to America, a country you’d only ever heard about on the radio and television, that you’d never dreamt you’d ever actually visit.

The flight is fucking awful, soul-crushingly long and tedious. You’re meeting the band in Memphis, but since they’re driving in from Oklahoma City they won’t be in until mid-Saturday afternoon at least. You arrive late Friday night - or, very early Saturday morning - promptly passing out in your tiny hotel room until it’s almost afternoon.

Taking a shower in the sharp American water, you consider the days to come. It’s in your nature to worry, just a little, about all the unknowns, but extensive reasoning with yourself inside your head brings most of the sizzling anxiety down to a simmer. And the thought of seeing Roger again turns the sick fear in the pit of your stomach into a fluttering excitement. 

It’s warmer than you expected, taking in all the sights Memphis has to offer, particularly as the sun is shining more than you think the English sun has ever shone. You’re supposed to meet Roger at the venue, and it’s late afternoon before you approach the side of the theatre. In the meantime you’d managed to procure an entirely new heat-appropriate outfit from a lady whose teeth were a bit too white for your understanding of how teeth should look. It feels appropriate, somehow, to dress a little nicely tonight. The first gig you went to felt like a false start, tonight your real introduction to the world of being a rockstar’s girl.

The venue, a sweeping coliseum, seems to tower over you. You can see the tour bus and a couple of crew carrying equipment in as you walk up, adjusting your new shorts and giving the security guard a friendly smile. It’s not reciprocated, but he lets you in without issue.

The halls towards the dressing rooms are decorated with memorabilia from previous performers, some of them really quite famous. Photos, t-shirts, vinyls, signatures, all with smiling faces and brilliant designs. By the time you reach the dressing room you’re a little overwhelmed at the idea of entering into a hotbed of fame, as little as it may be to some.

Your fear is soon allayed, when Roger’s delighted embrace soothes your nerves more than you thought it would. He doesn’t make a big deal out of your entrance, but holds you close for a few seconds, speaking quietly into your ear.

“You alright? Get here okay?” You nod, and he plants a kiss on your forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

It’s clear he’s putting concerted effort into appearing calm and appreciative, and while that means he’s acting almost comically out of character, the idea of Roger calculating the best actions for your benefit is so utterly charming you can forgive his odd presentation.

“Let me show you the stage.” He takes your hand and leads you through the belly of the arena until you burst upon the stage. 

Logically, you know there are stages larger than this one. But your unfamiliarity with the view of an audience from the stage leaves you astounded at the amount of seats set in front of you.

“This venue is... proper.” You say, and Roger nods, taking a breath as he surveys the empty room.

“Mott can get a bit further than pubs and uni’s.” His tone is amused, but with the strain of anxiety peeking through, smothering most of his excitement before he can feel it.

“You know, Elvis played here in March.” He presents this fun fact with the grimness and dread of someone who has just been told they have to do something they really don’t want to do.

“Really? Holy shit.” You can’t help but blurt. There’s a couple of seconds of quiet with only the ungraceful sounds of set up, the two of you still with your eyes on the sea of space waiting to be occupied. You move first, walking to Roger and threading your fingers through his as if to join him in his opposition to the ghost of the audience to come.

“I’m really proud of you.” You speak softly, and Roger’s anxiety seems to melt just a little at the sound of your voice. Roger turns and embraces you tightly, and you can feel his chest rise and falls slowly under yours.

It’s strange, after seeing all those seats so vacant and vast, seeing the room so packed with life, grins and tears and noise overwhelming the space to where it seems at once smaller and larger than it did before. The walls themselves seem to move along to the beat. Standing on the side of the stage with the band’s music and the crowd’s cheers just as loud as each other, you feel as if you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And when Roger looks to the side and flashes you a thrilled smile, he only affirms your contentment.

The rest of the few days you spend with the boys are nothing but heavenly. Immensely exhausting, but busy in a fulfilling way. You and Roger have never been closer, the arduous routine of tour allowing you to skip the niceties and frills accompanying a slow and steady progression back to easy comfort and jump directly into the kind of everyday intimacy usually enjoyed by couples who’ve been together for a while. 

It was like a dream, this wonderful escape from the monotony of full time work, summer not quite coming quick enough to ease the boredom of autumn nights. Home feels strange in its familiarity, a place so intimately known seen with fresh eyes again. Roger calls every time they reach a new destination, complaining about the food and the driving but gushing about the shows and the fans. When Queen II hits the charts in America all the way down the bottom of the top 200, Roger tells you straight away, reading their place from the printed chart list provided by his managers. His voice is swollen with pride, and you almost tear up when he starts talking about how much success in America means to the band, how far they’ve come and how far they’ve got to go.

But very early Monday morning, Chrissie calls, her voice wobbling and strained. Brian’s sick. Very sick. And they’re all coming home immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasn't happy with the chapter last week so i gave myself another week to edit. you'll notice i've added an ending chapter number - i've finally decided on a conclusion to this saga. thanks for reading!


	32. "I love you."

_ Monday 13 May, 1974 _

Chrissie doesn’t come in to work after she calls about Brian’s illness. You’re hardly productive, the lack of information fueling your worst apprehensions. You call Chrissie again as soon as you get home from work, desperate for reassurance, but very little comes. The boys caught the first flight available, but still won’t be home for another few hours. What little they know for the moment sounds awful, but everyone’s helpless until they can get Brian home.

You sleep restlessly, but know there’s nothing you can do.

-

_ Tuesday 14 May, 1974 _

You know their flight got in very late last night, but accounting for Roger’s jet lag and your need to hear his voice, you’ve got no qualms calling early. You call before you leave for work, the sun only just rising over the roofs of houses, your apartment still steeped in the cold darkness of night.

Roger answers the phone with a croaky, “hello?” after several rings. You hardly let him finish before you begin to speak, all your worry spilling out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“Rog? I heard Brian’s sick, what’s going on?” You bite your tongue although you want to ask a thousand more questions. Roger takes a couple of seconds to answer.

“Oh, uh...” He coughs harshly into the phone, and your frown deepens.

“Are you okay?” You can feel your muscles bound in an endless tension, unable to release your insides from the knots they’re twisting into.

“I’m not very well.” Roger manages to say, his voice almost a whisper, deep and gravelly in a way that you can almost feel the pain in his throat just by listening.

“What do you mean, have you got a cold?” The possibility of the worst pulls your heart violently into your shoes. 

“It’s the worst bloody cold I’ve ever had.” Again, Roger’s hardly finished speaking before you’re talking over him, attempting to grab your car keys without pulling the phone off the table.

“I’m coming over.”

“I’m fine, don’t-”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.” 

You’re struggling to put your coat on while still holding the phone so you take the phone away from your ear. You don’t hear Roger when he insists, “you really don’t need to”, concluding your conversation with a quick, “I’ll see you soon”. You hang up so you can leave work a frenzied voicemail letting them know you’re not coming in, and rush out to your car.

You knock on Roger’s door when you arrive, but you don’t wait for him to answer, cautiously stepping inside. He’s lying on his bed with the covers thrown off onto the floor, all his few windows flung open with the frigid morning air coming in.

“Roger, it’s freezing in here!” You exclaim, shutting the door and rushing to shut the windows.

“I’m hot as all fuck.” Roger groans and rolls over, though it seems like it takes a lot of effort for him to do so. Having shut the windows, and feeling the temperature in the room rise immediately, you return to Roger, placing the back of your hand on his forehead gingerly.

He flinches slightly, your hand still cold from the outside and his forehead far, far too hot.

“You’ve got a fever, Rog.” You say, picking his blankets up off the floor and laying them at the end of the bed. Roger just grunts and sniffs.

Seeing that Roger won’t be much help looking after himself, you busy yourself with locating anything useful in Roger’s messy flat. You find an old packet of paracetamol which you assume will help, so you feed that to Roger with minimal issue, and set him up with a large glass of water and a box of tissues. You pull the curtains against the rising sun, and place a wet flannel over Roger’s forehead, despite his feeble protests. 

After fifteen minutes or so for the medication to start working, you try and get Roger talking again.

“How are you feeling, baby?” Roger doesn’t open his eyes, but he does speak. 

“I’m tired. My body hurts. But it’s just tour.” He speaks in short sentences, breaths between them.

“Well, I think the runny nose means you haven’t got what Brian’s got.” You mutter under your breath, not thinking Roger is conscious enough to hear you. But he is.

“No I don’t.” He says shortly, but then opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours for the first time that morning. “Is that what you thought?”

You shrug, trying to play off your concern. “I didn’t know.”

Roger doesn’t speak again, it clearly being tiring for him, though he does take your hand and squeeze it, and you think you know what that means.

-

_ Friday 17 May, 1974 _

You have to go to work over the next few days, but you’re at Roger’s flat as soon as you can be each day, armed with medications and soup to nurse him back to health. He could manage by himself, just, but you can tell he enjoys the company. And you fawning over him.

Roger’s graduated from lying immobile and mute to propping himself up in bed, and today he’s even awake when you arrive, in time for an early dinner.

“Feeling better?” You ask, setting your’s and Roger’s food down on his bed and walking to get some cutlery. The flat is still messy, now instilled with the stale stagnation of illness. You pull a gap in the curtains to let the last of the dying light through.

“Miraculously so. Must be my excellent nurse.” He says, smiling as you return to sit next to him on the bed.

“Definitely.” You sit and eat together, you filling Roger in on all the day’s gossip, Roger listening contentedly as you talk. There’s a lull, and you ask a question you’d first thought of several days before.

“When did you last wash your hair?” Roger’s expression goes from surprised to unsuccessful thinking, and then to guilt before landing on flippant.

“How often do people need to wash their hair, really?” You shake your head, and Roger smiles at your disapproval.

“I mean, I love the dishevelled look but this is getting matted.” Roger shrugs. “You look like an unshorn sheep.” You add, and Roger opens his mouth in shock. You burst into laughter at your own joke and Roger joins, though he’s more coughing than laughing. In the excitement you manage to spill soup all over your lap, exclaiming a loud, “fuck!”, and clasping your hand over your mouth in fear that the neighbours heard you swear at the top of your lungs.

Whether it’s the sight of you covered in soup and swearing or just something he’d been wanting to say for a while, he takes that moment as the opportunity to blurt, “I love you”. Loud and confident enough for you not to doubt it as an accident, he still looks shocked when he says it. For a startled second you stand, dripping soup, the both of you looking into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to break. You move swiftly, uncaring about your soaked lap, wrapping your arms around his neck loosely and tenderly.

“I love you too.” You whisper, feeling his arms close around your waist, squeezing you tighter until you’re both hugging as hard as you can, chuckling into each other’s ears.


	33. Epilogue

_ Thursday 19 November, 1974 _

The band’s third album, Sheer Heart Attack, has been out for less than a fortnight, and the accompanying tour is going remarkably well. Tomorrow is they’re attempting a new idea - a concert at the Rainbow, fully recorded, a cause of excitement and anxiety knowing their every move will be immortalised. Tonight’s show is almost like a dress rehearsal, and it goes well, well enough for the band to want to let off steam by invading the closest pub.

In the midst of everyone’s dedicated focus on getting more and more drunk, John and Freddie seem to be getting into an argument, Freddie’s voice raised but not enough for you to hear him clearly from where you are. You’re leaning against Roger with your back to him, standing in between his legs as he’s perched on a tall stool. Freddie shakes his head, drink swishing precariously in his glass. John’s got one arm wrapped around Veronica’s waist, the other holding a bottle of beer against his chest.

Abruptly, Freddie raises his voice louder, shouting above the buzz of the crowd.

“Excuse me, everyone!” He steps up onto the footrest of the nearest stool, which lifts him up to about Brian’s height. 

“John Deacon, you all know John, our beloved John…” The crowd of crew, friends and strangers look around, and soon the room seems to be focused primarily on Freddie’s drunken rambling.

“He has a little announcement that everyone should know. John, please.” Freddie gestures for John to replace him on the footrest, and John obliges, though his cheeks start to blush as he addresses the room. Whatever he was trying to confide in Freddie about is now the room’s concern.

“Well, everyone. It’s, um, Veronica and I. We’re engaged.” You can’t see who claps first, but the group soon erupts into a rowdy applause, replete with whoops and whistles. John dismounts the stool as soon as his sentence is finished, crowded with handshakes and friendly pats on the shoulder from those around him as he attempts to return to his fiance.

Chrissie is already starting to plan the entire wedding, fretting about what floral arrangements will best match the colour scheme she has in mind, with more input from Freddie than either the future bride or groom. 

You wade through the mob, pulling Roger by the hand behind you. You contain your congratulations of John and Veronica to a kiss on the cheek and brief admiration of the engagement ring, respectively, knowing they’d rather the pleasure of their own company over yours. 

 

You’d made your complaints about Roger’s crappy shoebox apartment more than clear over the last six months, but you’re still staying over at his place tonight, if only for Piper’s sake.

Roger is preoccupied in the backseat of the taxi on the way back to his place, his brow furrowed as if he’s considering something requiring great thought. He keeps his eyes on your intertwined hands as he speaks.

“You know, my lease ends soon.” He says, laying the fact in front of you with a tone of finality. You nod, waiting for him to elaborate with a bemused smile. 

“And so does yours.” He adds. You nod again. 

“It does.” You say. You can tell he’s anxious, even though he’s trying to hide it.

“Well, why don’t we get our own place?” He asks softly, finally meeting your eyes. His nervousness seems to dissipate at the sight of your smile.

“I’d love that.” You say, both of your smiles widening. Your heart flutters at the sight of him looking at you like he is: adoring, proud.

“I love you.” He says, planting a kiss on the back of your hand that he’s still firmly holding. He’s said it many times, but it never ceases to amaze you how powerful those words can be.

“I love you too.” You nestle your head on his shoulder, the shadows in the car shifting rapidly under the streetlights. Roger leans his head on yours, and you shut your eyes. It’s not long before the drive to his apartment will be over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks! thanks for reading


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